DOWN AND OUT
at the crossroads again
begging the bosses for work,
some way to make it, easily,
a monthly grub-steak, a few
bucks in exchange for me,
my aging-marketable abilities,
whatever they may be, since
I need money, shelter, time,
that tick-clocking and increasing
chill-risk factor, whatever
jobs-to-be-got, whatever shit
needs shoveling, cold palms
to be squeezed—I’m your man,
I know I can get it done, keep
my songs buried, be a good
employee till this hollow shell,
my chest cavity, retires to pretend
the black hole is really this blue
heart aching, circling the dying
fire (and our silly, repetitive games)
oh-so briefly before the light fades.
Mark Gibbons ( Missoula Bard )
....
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