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OLD JACKET
Are you God,
he asks
each person
he meets?
He smokes his
Winston's
to the end
and burns
his fingers:
he picks
up butts from
the floor
and stuffs them
in his
old jacket
and smiles.
Rubberbands
are tied
around his
jacket...
I am God,
he says,
and you're the
devil.
This jacket
will keep
my soul safe
and these
rubberbands
will keep
my jacket
from hell's
slippery
grasp: I
am in line,
my friend...
in line to
Heaven,
and you'll stay
in hell.
ON THE OUTSIDE
Sitting in the chair,
back straight as a board,
he faces the wall, his
back facing the bed:
in the lightless room,
except for a small
opening in the partially
drawn curtains, his
dark shadow can be
seen on the wall,
his head hardly moves,
but his voice never
lets up: he is making
plans, business deals
in his foreign tongue.
He raises his voice
as if angered, talks
to the wall and says,
<i>I'll take care of you
on the outside.</i>
BITTERSWEET
Bittersweet, I stand on the porch.
Youth is served. The burning bag
On the doorstep.
But I smelled the prank as well as
I heard the laughter behind the
Overgrown hedge.
This is our future. The kids will age.
Some will go to work
Blue collar jobs.
Not all can be CEO's, rock stars, or
Bums. Not every job will
Go overseas.
Bittersweet, they will stand on a porch.
Youth will be served. What comes around
Will go around,
Leaving burning bags of dog feces.
My advice, "Don't stomp on it with your
Shoes. Let it burn."
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