Paying the Man

High mileage; or the price of a shortened life

Paying the Man

June
July
August 
September

I'm old enough to remember 
the last war, and young 
enough to forget the next -

But I'm no tourist,
I actually live here

And now -
in the friendly dust,
my mind grows clear

My only dialogue
is with the earth,
whose dirt muffles memory
and shuffles all the hurt

October
November 
December
January

I don't need you with
the Lord as my point-man

Yet you say God walks with you,
forgetting that you've never 
left the nest to begin with

While all that copper you carry
spills from this hole 
inside my chest

February
March
April
May

I am tired, Uncle
So tired -
Let me stay and rest awhile

My breath is a vacuum
that moves on siphoned gas -

And all this suffering 
feels religious,
if you pay close attention 
to the past

So, wake me when it's all over,
I want to be the 
very last of us to remember...

June
July
August 
September