It starts with the blood in the alley
between the liquor store that became
a bookstore that became a liquor store again
and the old folk’s home that was almost run under
by that terrible scandal in the 80’s.

It starts there,
and pretty soon you’re a tourist
staggering past the hospital
where you were supposedly born.

You see too much of everything that’s going on.
You suddenly know what can kill a reasonable man.

The middle of the night is always the worst.
You can never run into anyone interesting
because they’re all as crazy as sleepless
as you feel like you’ve been for the last six months.

There’s always something happening
on the third or fourth floor of every other
apartment building that’s older than hell
and just wasn’t standing there yesterday.

It’s probably nothing.
Another newspaper writer trying to find something to watch on TV.
An out-of-work bouncer wishing the four a.m. train would take out his kitchen.
An old man who can’t remember his late wife’s sister’s phone number.

But you still wonder about it.
Your imagination is now greater than your common sense.

You drink coffee from a hole in your arm.
All that broken glass is still hanging in the air
and gravity is always unforgiving at the top
of whatever hill you manage to make it to.

The view is never good enough.
Mornings are always slow but quick
to throw their arrogant weight around.

It’s not impossible to make it back home
in time to call in sick for work,
but you seriously question your luck
every time you trip over the mail
that’s been piling up at the door every week.

They’re starting to wonder about you.
The gas was shut off over a month ago,
and the landlord is all out of Christian miracles.

Providence has never been your strong suit.
Your hands are a lot more stupid than you are,
and you talk too much when you’re nervous.

No one ever trusted you in Vegas.
No one ever passed the dice your way,
so there’s no reason to think
why that suddenly might change.

It’s easy to believe that you’re going to
head out
one night
and just not come back at all.

It’s easy to make assumptions,
and it’s definitely a crying shame.

01/30/2010

Posted on 01/30/2010
Copyright © 2024 Gabriel Ricard