UBIQUITOUS AS
A TREADMILL
Late after midnight I am quashing a
feeling; my eyes are twisted to another
realm, and I walk alone. Misfits make the
bridgework work, two-fisted hamstring
men climbing over cables and beams. It's
always another tomorrow, or so it seems.
-
The jaunty fellow with the wellspring hat,
he is walking towards me holding yet another
Bible. I want to hit him this time good.
That girl nearby, she has marinara legs,
and I'd sure love to get in that sauce,
and should. Park it over here, lady.
-
Some geek is playing digital music from an
overhead high-hat perch. He sits in his aerie,
a balcony like an evil Heaven, looking down.
I used to know him then, but now it's now.
Her sister was Millie O'Malley or Molly
MacGuire. One of those ancient runes.
-
Drinking Maker's Mark like this can cause time
to last forever. Would that it were so, and that
every shot brought a shot of love, and a place
to hide the loot, a closet full of lucre, and a
model made of lead. Now I've got nothing but
distaff markings, and a tattoo on my head. These
loves should last forever, and I surely hope
they will, but playing other tunes,
a different music then, instead.
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