Prince’s unpublished songs
fly about like little birds.
Some of them escape to the future
in time machines
where Prince welcomes them home.
Some of them hide
from Prince’s estate in the toes
of his stiletto-heeled boots.
It’s spring again, and I must renew
my driver’s license.
One of Prince’s published songs
plays at the DVLA
and everyone goes crazy.
It’s not that an orgy breaks out
amid the clerical grind of who
owns what and who
drives whom, but I can tell
that I’m not the only one
wondering what it would be like
if it did.
Glen Armstrong (he/him) holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters. His poems have appeared in Conduit, Poetry Northwest, and Another Chicago Magazine.