It isn’t the sea,
but that rain puddle has survived
three decades on Main Street,
and that includes that one summer
where the wrecking yard exploded
and blocked out the sun for the rest of the year.

It’s not bottomless. You can see at least twenty lawyers
chained to the bottom, breathing god knows what and hoping
a traveling salesman or just some old drunk with a pair of headphones
comes along and sticks a hand in there.

I’ve seen a few friends go that way. I’d like to say I’ve been brave
enough to stay indoors at my old age. If not that then I would at least
like to tell you that I’ve closed my eyes, taken a ride in one of those
broken elevators and believed in something
greater than myself. That would be nice, but the reality
has more to do with staying awake and taking more than my fair share
of medication.

A lot of good people have moved on. They trusted me,
and I was out to lunch with forks I stole from a soup kitchen
in Kansas City. I was borrowing money against what I already owed,
and that was only so the guys at Johnny Gamine’s would smile and keep calling me by my first name.

When someone put an arm on my shoulder
I only got meaner.

Someday I’d like to meet with the dead and anyone
who stopped listening to the same music as I do. I want to apologize.
I want the angels to start directing those flaming swords
at old roadside motels and for my doctor to stop trying to put me
to sleep with holy water and old, infinitely creepy reggae music.

I want to be forgiven. I want the serenity prayer to cut
a six-inch valley through Tin Glass Trailer Park and then do something
dramatic to that rain puddle on main street. I want it gone. Out of here.
Absolutely obliterated right down to the last lost soul.

After that
someone can loan me their good fake name,
so I can rent a red drop-top and ride out of here
with some cigarettes and the best black Stetson hat money can buy.

It’s corny,
but after the penance I’m looking to pay this fall
I might even come to deserve it.

02/09/2010

Posted on 02/09/2010
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