I’m bringing back the Thursday Poems. This was printed in the Outcast about a year ago.
I’ve never worked as a bike messenger.
Never delivered any packages for money.
Well, that’s not entirely true.
I have rode around with rather substantial amounts of drugs on my person.
On, as “in” a backpack.
That was for money.
A pay to play program, if you will.
But, running legal documents across town,
never done it.
No motive and no opportunity.
Each the same.
Each of their own.
Some guys have all the breaks.
Some guys don’t have anything that’s broken.
Two smoke tinged,
dusty hotel room beds,
barley slept in.
Build and used for indoor workouts,
not restful nights of slumber.
Hit it and quit.
In and out.
Can I get a room by the hour?
What do you mean you’re not running that kind of hotel?
More ice in my drink,
if you could.
It separates me from the savages.
If only for a fleeting moment.
We all do what we can.
Like two ships passing in the night.
Heard that phrase applied to two couples entwined in a drunken embrace one night.
Passing in the night, my ass.
More like two ships helplessly grounded on some god forsaken reef only to be overwhelmed by the sea and drown by the light of day.
the darkened moments of our lives.
The opposite of life,
darkness brings its own benefits package to the table.
What you can do for me?
No, what I can do for you, good sir.
What I can do for you.
And then we’re all on the hook, aren’t we?
In one way or another.
in the end,
we all get drawn in on the line.