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Houston, 2:40 AM
by Erik Jensen“It's dark out here, dude.”
We'd feasted on cheap beer and old rock chords long enough
when the bartender found the time for us.
Slurred, we shuffled beside the towering phantom giants
to his American-flag buckle land yacht (from recollection,
drenched in swamp green light).
We're full of the same bullshit our daddies are -
that one hail Mary pass of a poker hand, the volley of cameras
after catching 16-pound ol' Zeek, the local tall tale compacted
into a seven pound Nessie.
Ain't you glad to be the stuff kids dream about
one heavy, orange, midsummer afternoon on the less mysterious old lake?
The hazy, grayscale stuff that people reminisce in old movies?
Now, we've found the land yacht with her side window splintered
carelessly, each cracked marble scattered and gleaming swamp water.
Sloppy with good intent, I remove my t-shirt and dig each opaque bullet
from her, while his undefined fury shoots like friendly fire in all directions.
Even George Carlin would blush.
We'll laugh about this next time. 12/05/2009 Posted on 12/06/2009
Copyright © 2024 Erik Jensen
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