WASN'T THAT ALWAYS LIKE ME?
I'm not good at anything and
failure's always been my middle
name. I really ought to just jump.
Why defame the rest of the miserable
world with my upkeep and maintenance?
If there's an SST out there, still waiting
to fly, I'll get on it and ride the wing.
-
I think I was born in a hospital, though
they should have snuffed me at birth.
Bayonne itself was too good for me,
unless maybe Uncle Milty's had a
freak-show booth. I walked the
water with my hands in blood.
-
My grandmother worked somewhere
there - a girdle factory, then a hospital,
seamstress to the stars. Darning sheets
and pillowcases that the mental patients
had torn and marred. I think that was
all meant for me.
-
Out in the yard, those prisoners from
World War II were kept in penned-in
cages, like some inhuman zoo, some
other nightmare Guantanamo of the
deadly-fractured mind. That was me,
the baby you heard, crying.
-
Later, they made bras and girdles in
that same old factory. Once a prison,
then a support-shelf for sagging ladies.
Wasn't that always like me?
No comments:
Post a Comment