The People We Used to be and the People We’re Not

All my days start with waking
From some insurmountable place
The top of a tree in my old neighborhood
A Plantation house in the south, standing on the roof
Looking down at the streets I don’t recall anymore
Seeing myself as the younger man
I no longer relate to
Drop me off in my old town
The streets not the way I remember them
One bleeds into another, into the next
A memory here, a misplaced footing here
A romantic embarrassment, the place I called home
Now inhabited by strangers who beat the walls senseless
And roam the streets
Looking for the maps
To places that don’t exist like they were
The people we used to be and the people we’re not
It’s the same everywhere and nowhere about.

The Winnebago of Responsibility

Wait, wait. I can’t wait anymore.
Can’t cut it back once it’s overgrown
Swimming in the stereo sound I know it’s over
The tender years of fast cars
Late last summer on the wet road
The all day rain and the warm feeling underneath the car
Telling you there’s a beast in there somewhere
Underneath the asphalt
The twenty five year old
Sticks to your jaw, to rev up the accelerator
Hangover sticking to spine
Tell yourself you’re still young
While the Winnebago of responsibility appears in the rear view
Flip-up Sunglasses Zinc Oxide
Bumping your rear bumper, honking its horn
Sticking out a plaid sleeve from the side window
Maturity flipping you off
Forcing you into the buttoned-up meeting
That is the rest of your life

The Night Watchman

Waking up to the cold deep inside
My consciousness floating over pits of despair
Looking down at who I was before
And where I am headed today
Cup of steam in my hand
Warm at the bus stop if I can lean in
Staring down at the liquor bottles from the night before
I wonder what he was thinking, sitting here before dawn
Just a few hours before me
Waiting for the day to come, another day and another bottle
Begging for change on the street
Keeping watch over the evening
I come here each morning, and watch the remnants
Get blown away by the wind
St. Ides,
St. Ides and cigarettes
Still warm with breath
I take a hit from my cup of steam
And observe the start of a new day