Nick Drake
Nick Drake The first time, driving through green Ohio woods, Likely high, my cousin at the wheel. Those were the days of CDs In big black binders with torn plastic sleeves, When one winced to tilt one’s favorites To the light to see how scratched they were, When to listen to an album too much could cause it harm. When, leaning forward between the front seats, I asked, “Who is this?” his girlfriend turned And told me his name. This before the notes had carved their shapes Into the softwood of my hearing. Before the hundreds of nights I lay on the floor With my ear near the speaker To catch the last notes of “From the Morning.” Before I knew what he looked like. Before I knew that he’d killed himself. Before the Volkswagen commercial Which would make what I’d felt feel less unique. Before I began to look like him, What with my long uncared-for hair And my thrifted threadbare suit coats, The sleeves ending high above the wrists. Before This Is Nick Drake. Before the B-sides and biographies. Before I learned to play the songs, Hard to tune to, but not too hard to play. Twenty years have passed since that day. I wish I could go back to that moment Just before I heard his voice for the first time, My cousin driving, his girlfriend turning The pages heavy with CDs, before She saw it and said, under her breath, Two words I wouldn’t have understood Had I heard her say them: “Pink moon.”