The private retreat of your black-alley heart,
Anger makes a man of you,
Cut with a butcher-knife those moods you cage,
Bottled-up for our benefit.
Until the kettle whistles,
Absent rhyme or reason, your madness comes neat.
Hang that pallid filthy skin on a coat rack with missing teeth,
And walk nude the dank biting streets,
Where your envy bemoans that concluding youth,
And your boyhood memoirs are but little feet tracking mud on kitchen linoleum,
The ellipsis of a good era.
When once roguish cheeks are now turned concrete,
Throat aches from forced civility,
That big, intrepid lion heart you prize is rent in two,
And your little ego in shoeboxes are rubbed wrong,
Where your exquisite politics is badmouthed,
And you long to kick an activist in the head,
When you hanker after your neighbor’s healthy wife,
And the one into whose eyes you once dipped,
your last love come thru the beaded curtain timeworn,
steeped in vitriol,
When boyish charms fade thru hot exhales,
And the days of waste count in S.I. units of regrets,
When you size up smaller men by fragile jaws,
The things you could do, if it pleased.
In truth, you know, you are most powerful in your favorite chair,
Friday night boulevards, when you sidle aghast under neon lights, nothing else, glass eyes, a strangers tobacco exhale,
And you are the unseen creep,
When friends, hair, and sinew have thinned,
And all you are, mirror-forward, is your abominable old man on repeat,
When in doubt,
It is the best you could do for us.
Image | Unsplash | JD Mason | @jmason