I am not bitter. I am not a bundle
of literacy and semi-functional flaws
at a flea market surrounded by empty gas stations.

That doesn’t mean I’m not going to be a lost cause
by the fourth Friday. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t try
to knock the clear sky on its arrogant ass
on the fifth, sixth or half-lucky seventh Fridays.

Neither one of us are going to believe me,
but I’d tell you every day that I would eventually come out
to more good mornings than bad ones.

But I’ll sit down. If only so you can get a better look
at the dashing, confident stranger standing tall behind me.
My feet aren’t as good at living with the stress
of a standstill as they used to be. That’s not your fault.

Not your problem.
Too many cathouses that turned out to be beehives
that turned out to be a lot of the same old shit.

My travel agent calls me a sucker
from the sticks that turn out to be pieces
from the last appalling state fair,
and he sells me on another visit to smokestack city.

It’s really lovely some other time of the year.

He has me babysit his teenage bride
in exchange for breakfast coupons
for when I finally go to Hong Kong.

Someone’s going to have to mend
my broken bones one last time,
and push me through security to get me on that boat.

The plan is to be a million miles away
from any reunion I could possibly be invited to.

Nothing to do but take off my jacket
for the rest of my days.

It’s a freedom that sells you out right at the end,
and it’s not the decision of a man who carries around
an empty bottle of nail polish for good luck.

Helpless doesn’t figure in to where I’m going.

It’s a choice. The same way I choose
to wish you the best by telling somebody else.

10/18/2012

Posted on 10/19/2012
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