WHAT DEWEY WHAT?
Table scraps, nutrients of waste, nothing more
than scalded matter on an altar host. This crippled
priest comes hobbling by to begin telling me all the people
I've known who are already dead. It's not fucking funny
any more, Padre. It's starting to hurt. Just this last week,
two more. Guys I was kids with, a girl I once kissed,
some jerk with whom I used to do calisthenics in gymn.
What the hell? This ain't pretty no more.
-
How does it feel when the last one is gone? When the
final bill in your wallet's a one? I hope I can tell you,
but later, yeah, much later in fact.
-
A few times already I've thought back on things -
remembering polishing old cars when we just could
afford them, pieces of crap barely running. The paint
was all dead, no clear-coat left but what did we care? It
was the cleaning and polish and rubbing that counted. We
owned - a six-hundred dollar miserable wreck with four
bad tires and a carburetor that coughed every time you
pressed the gas to go. Now, yeah, now already, it's now
already, and most of these guys are starting to fall off.
Table scraps. Nutrients of waste. Scalded matter
on an altar host.
No comments:
Post a Comment