Awful sweet of her,
terribly, terribly kind
to ask what I wanted
for my birthday.

Classy doesn’t figure into
how she knows so much
about so many,
but I don’t judge. I don’t think
for a second that Hell will have
room to spare for someone like her.

And if it does
she’ll have plenty of company.
I know I’m going to put in a cameo,
but only if I can get to the video store
on foot. Only if I can shake off a cold
in less than six months.

That alone would be better
than what I have here
amongst the apparently living.

Selling me on a bad idea
is as easy as it’s ever been.

I don’t judge the girl.
I hardly judge anybody.

She’s flown a hundred miles above
the stationary grandeur
more times than I ever will.

She’s turned men into cockroaches,
and cockroaches into sweet kids
with questionable guitar skills.

Twenty-grand a day,
and she says it’s all going to be delivered
by an accountant with confidence issues
from Sacramento.

Someday.
Her brother is going to stop hitting strangers.
Eventually.
I have to visit him sometimes on her behalf.
Occasionally.
He keeps about sixty chickens in the living room.

Thirty or so cats in the unfinished attic.

He’s going to get healthy.
Suddenly flush with compassion and wisdom.

The money is going to come.
Pay to have the car fixed.

Get back the store her father used to own
that sold vintage movie posters and old pipes.

I would help with all of this,
all of these things,
but I’m selfish, beleaguered
and busy trying to make my own fortune.

People want to find me,
they might even really need my help,
but I’m not leaving the porch light on.

I’m not going to tell her anything
but what I want for my birthday
is already perfect
and already sitting in my lap.

She loves the chaos that ensues
by shifting her weight just a little.
She loves when I say things
that sound like I thought of them earlier.

Like, years and years
earlier.

She loves to pour champagne
down the back of my shirt,
and I love that I don’t know
what that’s supposed to accomplish.

04/03/2012

Posted on 04/03/2012
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