One More for the Sunday Cab
Home is where you don't own the right-of-way.
I stole my cues from all the pretty songs --
but friends will handle you like a board game,
a novelty for rusty afternoons.
My thrift store cowboy shirt balled in a taco bag,
a song like go on, come on, hide from the shade.
Home: I'm coming back to Benny's crawlspace?
His Jewish father squishing in the kitchen.
Too many jokes I wanted to hug.
Let the soccerballs drip from the schoolbus.
I got catgut burns on my fingernails
to scrape what the train brushes,
another song for the Mars bar,
for the meat barn. Gone train, flat
Willie with his clown shoe hair.
Simple misses, simple override.
She can't get her dog to pose.
Volkswagon bus crimped in the sycamore
basketball pole like a watermelon salad.
Ira owned his basketball like a hot moon.
Now: no stairs left for me or undone belts.
Why not me inside the slow car?
No more stories of Taco Bell? Jesus.