One Night At The Pub…

“Saved your seat for you.” 

Matt returned Jessie’s grin as he hung up his coat, shaking the raindrops from the dark wool as he put it on the third hook in, just like every Saturday evening. The pub was at its usual dull roar, fifty or so voices tumbling over and under each other as he wound his way up to the bar, settling into his favorite stool, scarred hands resting on the scarred wood. Jessie was a flurry of movement behind the bar, pulling pints, pouring out measures tumblers of this or that, loading trays, and Matt just watched her move. She finished with the last round of drinks and made her way down to his end, grabbing the brimming pint glass she’d had ready and setting it down in front of him.

“How’ve you been luv?”

“Well enough, you know how it is.”

She gave him another smile, leaning against her side of the bar, her cheeks a bright, rosy red from the heat and the business, catching her breath. She’d always teased him, saying chatting with him was her only break. They began the weekly news, how her mum still wasn’t doing so well and having to give her dad a hand, what with him just pottering aimlessly round the house with his missus up in hospital. 

“He just seems so lost lately, you know? He was always one to be doing something, the kind of guy to fix whatever needed fixing, but ever since mum got sick, it’s like he just wanders, like he can’t fix this and doesn’t know what to do.”

“I know the feeling”

Matt took a deep pull, swallowed, and the chat went on, he’d had a call from his girls the other day, the eldest was starting Uni, and him and her mum couldn’t be prouder. It had been hard years since he had come back, since his ex had realized the man she’d loved had been left somewhere in an obscure patch of desert. He’d never blamed her though, they’d both just been very sad and mourned what they had and went their separate ways and done the best they could with the girls.

“You did your best luv” Jessie patted Matt’s hand, her fingers giving his a comforting squeeze. He just nodded and gave her another smile and hoped it didn’t look as bitter as it felt.

And so the night went, she’d trot off to fill more orders, their conversation ebbing and flowing between. He’d watch her, fascinated by the little crinkles around her eyes, the corners of her lips, smiling at the regulars, trading banter, laughing at bad jokes and even worse flirting. The skirt of her dress twirled around her legs as she spun between the taps, like she was dancing and he couldn’t take his eyes from her, even if he’d wanted to, which he didn’t. For the year or so since he’d started coming to the pub all he’d ever done was watch, wistfully, from his end of the bar, but really, that’s all he wanted. Every day was just the thing he had to get through till Saturday night and a few hours where he didn’t feel so lonely and she was smiling.

“You look a treat tonight Jess, got a fella waiting on you tonight?” She was walking back down to his end and she gave a little twirl. The dress wasn’t her usual work attire, and neither was the touch of makeup on her eyes and lips. Her hair was a bit different too, swept up a bit at the back and not it’s usual riot of loose curls. Matt felt a small twinge of jealousy somewhere deep down and tried to play it off by taking a drink.

“Yup, and his name is ‘Toby’ and he’ll be waitin’ at the door for me, tail wagging” Jess gave a giggle, leaning toward him, close enough that he could smell a heady mix of perfume, whatever she used on her hair, and underneath the scent of sweat and skin. Matt’s mouth felt dry of a sudden and he took another long pull of dark, bitter beer. “He’s the only man for me too.”

Matt felt relief at that, then felt stupid for feeling relieved and just fumbled with his words for a moment, twiddling the half empty pint glass between is hands, the heavy bottom rattling against the bartop. He would never understand why she didn’t have the lads all at her beck and call, but at the same time he was glad she didn’t have a fella in her life. Any time he felt too guilty about that, he’d shove it down with the thought that she’d just not had much luck there in the past and was happy on her own. Maybe that was the truth too. 

The night wound on, the crowd thinned out, last call was made and bills got settled. Matt was still sitting there, not wanting to move but knowing the inevitable walk back to his little flat was looming ahead of him. The staff were putting up the chairs, glancing at him and he got up to leave.

“Give is a hand luv, help me get these stools up.” Matt gave a nod, thanking Jess in his head for giving him an excuse to linger. He took his sweet time putting the barstools up, but even that task can only be stretched so far. Soon, everyone was gathering their coats, the landlord’s keys jingling eagerly in his hand as they all gathered by the door. Matt grabbed his peacoat, let it settle around his shoulders as Jess pulled her coat on, hands pulling her hair up and over the collar. 

“Walk me home Matt?”

“Aye, no problem Jess”

She called her goodbyes as the little knot of people parted ways, the late night village streets gleaming with the soft drizzle that had been falling all evening. The two of them turned up the lane, side by side, his boots scraping along, her heels clocking out a swifter tattoo against the pavements to keep up with his stride. He slowed his pace and they bumped hips. She didn’t live too far off and he wanted this trip to last as long as it could. Of course, that meant he blinked and they were standing outside her little cottage.

“This is me” she smiled, her hair damp from the rain, glowing in the sodium yellow lamplight. “Thanks for taking the time, it’s not far but I do feel better with a big lad like you.”

“No worry luv, on my way and all, and what kind of gentleman could I call myself if I let you go alone?”

There was a pregnant pause, she looked back at her door, then to him, he suddenly found his boots very interesting indeed.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you next Saturday then.” There seemed to be maybe a hint of reproach in her voice, but Matt wouldn’t let himself hear it.

“Aye, I’ll be there with bells on…it’s the best part of my week” the first bit was louder, the last Matt let his voice trail off, as if admitting even this much affection might be unwanted and rebuked.

Jess turned, and he caught what he thought was a bit of a frown and his heart sank a little. He watched her up the steps, was about to turn to go himself, his steps reluctant but resigned. He was already a few steps away when he caught a faint “ughhh, stupid man!!!”

Matt turned to find Jess, hands on her hips, looking down at him from the top of her stoop, a kind of weary half smile on her lips, shaking her head slightly side to side in exasperation.

“Take me to bed Matt.”

He stood there for a moment, like a pole axed ox, blinking, a long, slow, foolish grin spreading across his face, feeling like he was back in school and awkward and slightly lost. He closed the distance between then though, muttering “don’t have to ask me twice” as he lept up the steps. The brightness of her giggle echoed into the sleepy lane and Jess turned to let them in, the two of them slipping inside and the door latching firmly behind them.

What followed was soft, and sweet, and is absolutely none of your business.

The Romantic Imposter

It is a fine evening, the sun making its way lazily through the deepening blue sky, gently kissing the line of the horizon. There’s some respite from the heat of the day but still, there is a haze in the air, a faint mist clinging to any bare skin. The air seems perfumed, like someone has just split open a ripe tangerine, a thick, sweet scent of flowers mingling with the usual aromas of cars and pavements and people. Yes, it is a fine evening indeed.

“I love you” the words are a sigh, the exhaling of a breath, quite, meant only for the ears of the loved. I brush past the couple, two women holding hands, one’s head resting lightly on the others shoulder as they stroll. I’m quite sure that neither would have noticed me even if I was apparent, even if I’d bowled clean into them. At best I would have been a momentary impediment to their closeness. I can see the threads, red as red as red winding between fingers, knotted and plaited in their hair, tied to lips and tongues and lashes. Not my work, no, the province of another, but I can appreciate the craftsmanship, the complexities of each tied to each, a web of words and touches.

I still along as I am wont to do, letting my eyes wander, following the strands. It seems a night for lovers, the streets cross crossed with fine weavings. A young lad stumbles, a girl laughs and just then a streak of crimson runs from her mouth to his heart. It may amount to nothing at all or it may give birth to a tapestry, but it is a beginning, a hint, a promising of expectation. Not all such seeds bear fruit, but I find the potential pregnant within them intoxicating. If nothing else after all, I am made of nothing but possible so it is my nature. I like to think I could have been a romantic.

Further on an old man is winding up the awning over his shop. His skin is pricked all over with threads, an explosion of crimson webbing him to his store, to the windows above it, to the stoop, the bustop down the way, if you follow them all they’ll touch upon the whole neighborhood in some fashion. The Legion Hall where they’d first danced, the old bench down by the park where they’d sat and held hands, fingers laced together like piano keys side by each. There’s one that flies over to ‘Nam where her letters had kept him less broken than some. One hanging above a mantle somewhere where she’d fought for them both, getting disowned in the process. All the places he and her had touched together, even the bare room where she became nothing more than a shape barely described beneath the sheets, her hand eggshell in his. Fifty six years of thread followed him as he shut up shop, thrumming beneath his skin, telegraph talking of the good and the bad and the inbetween. I can’t help but read it all, feeling a bit of the voyeur, but it makes me smile as I move through the growing evening.

It’s all beautiful in some way, I can’t help but feel it, even I, perpetually and very necessarily alone. Here and there I sneak a few stands into my pockets, they won’t be missed and are quite useful. My footsteps become a waltz, slowly turn and turn about, moved by such aching, beautiful love, all the strands of it being played by the gentle summer breeze. I sigh as well, soft and low, mingling with all the others.

The Imposter Who Did Not Slay A Dragon

“Sh-sh-she l-l-left me!?!”
I find there is something inherently sympathetic when confronted by something so mighty expressing deep hurt and betrayal. I stood before the dragon, myself a splinter of dark cut out of the summer’s day, it vast, craggy, curled up around the prefabricated playground equipment, nearly, in fact, obscuring it from view. The long, lean muzzle of it lay forlorn upon its front claws and it was snivelling, all in all looking thoroughly wretched. Still, as I stood there before it, I must admit I was impressed. The scales of it glittered, hard, bright, rising into crests of horn, spurs of bone. Altogether, it was magnificent and terrible, a rare specimen indeed.
“Yes, well, they often do tend to do that I’m afraid.” I tried to sound conciliatory, which I truly am, after a fashion. These cases are always rather sad. All of the others born that afternoon, that had been strong enough, had already found their way into the Boarderlands. All the knights, the giant robots, the dinosaurs, the giant robots that were also dinosaurs, the wizards and witches, the herds of varicolored ponies, princesses, unicorns, the tumultuous, madcap horde of Makebelieves the children had imagined up were safely home. Those not so quite well dreamed had simply faded, disolving away the moment their children had been called home, leaving just the dragon.
The girl who’d imagined it up was only nine or ten, which actually made it all the more impressive. The imaginations of young children are indeed powerful, as most know, but they tend to be a bit unfocused. This girl had called up a truly awesome beast, no cartoonish Puff, but a juggernaut of air and fire and thunderous destruction. She’d stood so brilliantly atop the highest slide/castle tower, crowing in delight as her creation circled above her, the stiff, thick pigtails of her dark hair a crown, a valkyrie’s horned helm, triumphant, spurning all foes and would be rescuers in equal measure. So vividly had she dreamed, so fiercely, she would be one needing watching. That, however, would be for later. At this moment I was left with what to do with her titanic Makebelieve. The girl had drawn upon so much of the Unreal that the beast was straining at the edges of Real, at one point in her games the mighty wings so bruised the warm summer air the parents had craned their heads skyward, baffled, seeking telltale signs of thunderclouds that resolutely failed to be there. No, it was imperitive this one come with me, there was nothing else for it. Having a dejected, pouting dragon roaming about, throwing fits, menacing the suburbs, burning up things, or even people, could not be countenanced.
“D-d-do you think she’ll come back?” Such a voice! Generations have tried to recreate it, to vicalize it in the telling of tales, describe it in reams of text, cobble it together from wave forms and sound bytes for the silver screen, but they’ve never come close. How could you convey the roar of a predatory mountain, a hungering deep ocean of fire, the hurricane wings battering the winds into submission? You can’t, thats how, there is no imitating the real thing.
“I am sorry, but it is unlikely. They very rarely Makebelieve the same thing from day to day. Even if she did come back, she’d never dream exactly you again, it would be another.” I look deep into eyes the size of wagon wheels, so deep, so ancient, even just for an afternoon.
“It’s not fair, it’s just not!!!” The great wyrm rises, limbs thrusting upwards, neck a tower of scale and muscle, jaws dripping acid saliva and sharp teeth in equal measure. Great Gyre could that girl child dream! “I was good, I was fierce and mighty and I burned all the boys and princes and knights to cinders just like she wanted!!! I even gulped and devoured the ponies, even if I kind of thought they were pretty a bit!!! IT IS JUST NOT FAIR!!!” The wings extend with a huge, tearing sound, casting deep shade over the playground. Passing joggers peer incredulously at they’re watches as dusk seems to, against all reason, just snuck up on them.
“Very little ever is.” I keep my voice measured, calm. I could easily lose patience, but I always bear in mind that no matter the form, all Makebelieves are but children of hours. “It us the way of things, the children dream, they touch the Boarder with their vast, bright, unspoiled minds and they call you, beasts, faeries, wonders, and nightmares and they play with you until it’s suppertime, or bedtime, or time to do arithmetic. Then they go home, and you can too.”
“What if I don’t want to?” The massive head swoops downwards, thicket of teeth like spears parted, furnace breath sending my coattails dancing. “I am mighty you know” petulance now “I could stay if I liked and what could you do about it? It would not be hard to deal with you, you seem mostly ashes already little man-thing.” The voice is a cat cruel purr but even so could rattle bones into dust. “I could burn you, scatter you upon the winds of me, tear and bite and rend and stomp till there was even less nothing than you are now, I could!!!” The wings tear through the summer skies, rending the sleepy silence. It’s becoming harder to ignore. Actual people are teetering on the edge of believing and that is far too dangerous a precipice.
“No, you can’t” I say it matter of factly, casting it into the teeth of the wing wrought gale. Some believe in threats, some in bluster, others in flash or bombast, displays of naked power that would make professional effects artists weep. I find it best to just speak softly and let the power be felt, let it rise up from bootheels to forelock quietly, making a knot within, a valve holding back immense pressure. This usually drives the point home better than any ranting or ultimatum, just being me and perfectly aware of just what I can do. It has bedn my experience that very little can stand up to such certainty.
The dragon glares, angered, claws carving farmer’s field furrows deep into the rubber chip playground fake ground, roaring now, flames seething out from between clenched jaws, lifting slowly, gravity screaming in protest as several thousand tons of muscle, bone, and sinew rocket upwards. The head rears back, maw gaping, air rushing into lungs the size of small cars. With terrible speed it lashes forward, lunging towards me, eyes glinting in eager anticipation of the release of hellish, firey death…
“Ack….” The look of confusion upon its savage face is nearly amusing as not even a faintly warm breeze issues forth. “Why can’t I flame you?!?! Why is my fire not blasting the flesh from your bones?!?”
“I told you, you can’t, and I asked it not to.”
The beast collapses then with an ungraceful thump, dejected. Motorists passing the park stop, pull over, get out of their cars to check if they hit something or that there might have been, against all reason, a short, sharp earthquake. They’re alarmed, puzzeled, minds uneasy. This has gone on long enough, best to be done quickly.
“It’s not fair, it’s not fair, IT’S NOT FAIR!!”
“Again, no, it’s not, but there’s no point in blubbering about it, it’s unbecoming. Besides, if you keep this up you’ll drown the daisies with your tears.”
“But, but, but, I am mighty, I’m everything she wanted me to be…why doesn’t she love me anymore?” It curls up again, becoming small while staying the same size.
“She does love you, she loved you so well and so much that you were nearly Real, and that is a lot of love. The thing is, no matter how much they love us, the children will always leave us behind, it js their nature.” I run a consoling hand over its snout, the scales beneath my fingertips slick and hard. It sniffs some more, eyes shimmering, brimful. “At best they may remember us from time to time, but still, they will always leave none the less. You needn’t be alone though, if you just come along with me.”
“Where we’d be going…would there be knights?”
“Oh yes, I’m sure if it” at this the dragon perks up.
“And kings?” Slowly it gets to its feet. I begin walking away in my long strides, hands clasped behind my back, coattails fluttering and it follows.
“Certainly, can’t have one without the other.”
“And damsels in distress, maidens chained to rocks, villagers to strike terror into?” Its eagerness grows and I cannot help but smile as the falling evening of the Real is swallowed up by the twilight of the Boarderlands.
“I believe that can be arranged” I mean it too, there’s a patch of the Black Forest from 1125 lingering about that would be perfect. The dragon is nearly frisking along beside me, head level with mine, asking question upon question and so together, along the strange paths of my realm the dragon and I walk home.

The Birds Will Still Sing

Birds sing because they want to
While I am sure there are other
More scientific reasons,
Purposes of biology and evolution
I see no better reason,
After all, wouldn’t you sing so
If you could?

Therein lies the beauty I think
Song for the singing
Joy and revelry for simple being
Hymns of sun and wind beneath wing,
A chorus for bright bead eye
Turned skyward and flying dizzy.

Too many envy birds thier freedom
Hence cages, it sooths bitter heart
To see such wildness cloistered
As if we too locked up song and blue heaven,
Unaware or perhaps just denying
That they will sing and dream regardless.

I for one take comfort
For as rock crumbles, pride falls
Ash and smoke rise in choaking cloud
They will be there, mad charlatans,
Ragged finery ruffled, still pinwheel turning
Still singing, above it all
In the forever blue.

Sharp

Don’t give me greeting card love
I’m done with it, sick to death
Of meet cute movie soft lighting filter
Happily ever afters but only
After some contrived mis-understanding,
A few discreet tears, nothing that will damage
The perfection of the lover’s pretty plastics faces.

No, I want love that pushes into the gut
Like a dull, rusty saw blade
The one that you want to cut yourself on
The one that is worth suffering for
A lover made of scalpel blades
Something sharp cutting down to the bone
The sword you throw your heart upon.

I don’t think to love you have to suffer
Yet it is the love you would cut yourself on
That you would nurture its roots
With your bright blood,
That’s the one to cling to
The love worth dying for is, ultimately
The one worth living for too.

Tears To Gold

The rain is falling like tears broken open by a sieve
So fine that it looks as though the street lamps
Are bleeding strands of gold
Something magical pouring out of
An otherwise ordinary night
A little bit of wonder obtruding
Upon the drab skirts of life.

So gold drips onto my lips,
Moistening parched, cracked skin,
I’ve been speaking you poems for days
Breathless into the dark,
Tongue unreeling slow soft hymns
Out of your name and the secrets behind your smile
Because that is the purpose it learned
When you put your “I love you” upon it.

Now, all my speech tastes of you,
My breath conjures your shape out of moonlight
I have become this mad fool singing in the rain
Confounded by newfound joy
A fresh, new drunkard drinking deep
From the honey you poor down upon
Such impoverished souls as mine.

It’s a beautiful slavery
The way you’ve bound me up
Cleaving your grace to my limping
Making whole what was sundered
Laying your hand upon my brow
Turning my downcast eyes to light
Turning grey tears into gold.

Language Isnt Always Verbal

I want to teach you
The language of my hands
For they can at times
Be so very much more eloquent than I
More subtle than my sometimes clumsy tongue
Less prone to stumbling or misstep.

Every touch can be a poem
There are volumes written
Upon the lines of palms
Comfort in the creases, reassurance
Love, desire, solace, all find voice
Buried in fingerprints.

All that I cannot speak
In the space where words fail
Or have not the proper definition
Let my hands tell you
By caress or grasp
Variations of pressure or attitude
In perfect, silent eloquence.

That way, even the simple
Lacing of fingers twining
In knots of flesh and bone and nerve
Can be a conversation
Between our pulse
The unsayable become known
Described perfectly
As a slight squeeze.

Hope

You know, hope is never something I’ve really had. I mean, I’ve said to people “I hope things get better” or “I hope you have a good time” but I’ve done so only because it’s a nice thing to say, the only thing to say in some cases if you’re going to say anything. Yet I’ve never actually held hope for others or myself, to me from a very early age hope was equal to disappointment. Things would happen or they wouldn’t, would go well or poorly and more often than not hoping for any particular outcome was ultimately fruitless.
So I’ve made my way through life without hope. Even when I was unemployed and growing more and more desperate every day I never thought to myself “I hope I hear back from that job”, I just put my apps in and if I got a call, great, but if not then I just had to put more out there or else. Hope was never part of the equation. I don’t even hope for better, I just do my best and I get what I get. That’s how the world works. Even with my kids, I don’t hope they do well. I give my best, try to teach them what I know, tell them not to make the same mistakes I’ve made but ultimately, their fortunes are theirs. Mostly when it comes to them I just gave fear, knowing what I do of life. I fear what this world will do to them, how it’s going to crush down on them and put out the light in their eyes. Fuck, I don’t even have hope for humanity really, the more I see all I get is the same behaviors that have been perpetrated for millennia, new names perhaps, refining of concepts but all the same bullshit. If we honestly haven’t truly learned anything in all this time, where is there room for hope?
Now, all of the above was true, I basically thought hope was for suckers. I even wrote a poem about it somewhere on here if you care to look. It was true, but now, strangely, it isn’t. I have hope now. In fact, it kind of snuck up on me unexpectedly and metaphorically mugged my psyche. I wasn’t looking for it, but it found me and I find myself hoping for things. Now, normally if my brain allowed itself the faintest glimmer of hope, the “rational” majority of my mind would pitilessly squash it out. Lately though, I’ve found myself telling that part of me that gives me all the perfectly logical reasons why any given outcome is unlikely if not impossible to go piss up a rope. I find myself not giving even one fuck if all that I’m wanting will come to pass, I am just allowing myself to enjoy this feeling of lightness, being uplifted by the possibility regardless of logic or probabilities. It started off small, just hoping for one little thing, but it’s growing, spreading out roots and branches and slowly but surely I find myself hopeful.
Now, I’m not saying that just hoping is going to make miracles happen. I also don’t believe in magical bearded dudes in the clouds granting wishes. I know I’m going to have to work and struggle and fight for any of my hopes to come to pass and even giving my absolute all I know full well they may not, that disappointment and failure are always options. The thing is, I just don’t care any more. I do not care if I crash flaming into the ground and my whole world burns down. If it does, I tried my best, my hardest and I hoped for more.
Now, I know a lot of my faithful readers will be shocked by this, maybe to the point of sudden death. You all probably are overly familiar with my cynicism, my ongoing battles with clinical depression and anxiety. None of that has gone away really, it still lurks and I still fight it, I just have some better weapons perhaps. Where did all this come from you ask? It was a gift to be honest. A truly unexpected one, one I wasn’t looking for in the slightest, but probably one of the greatest gifts anyone has ever given me, even if they don’t realize that they did, that simply their existence is the gift. Like a lot of gifts, it’s fragile, but I’m trying to keep it whole. I say thank you every chance I get in as many ways as I can. It truly is a precious thing, what we call hope and I think from now on I will always appreciate its value, double edged as it may be.
So, for the very first time since I was a child I am hopeful. I bet money there are many who know me who had no hope for that. It just goes to show I guess.

The Kiss After

This could be viewed as a companion piece to “Not My First Kiss”, or maybe a finishing of the thought, a codicil that turns wistful nostalgia into something perhaps more hopeful. All I know for sure is that it is something that has been on my mind much of late, looking forward to that next kiss

I have gone on at great length about kisses. It is entirely likely that I have written miles of verse or prose dedicated to the subject, describing as best I can all possible varieties, shapes, conditions that a kiss may take or have. The fashion they can linger upon the skin or in the blood, the deep, lasting marks they can make upon fevered brain or tempestuous heart. One could say it is a favorite subject of mine, both a connoisseur, collector, and something of an expert even, if I do say so myself, although I think I could dig up a few testimonials to support the claim if I tried. The thing is, there are simply so very many kinds of kiss. The first kiss, the kiss goodbye, goodnight kisses, the best of which may turn into good morning kisses, languorous kisses that last whole afternoons and greet the dusk with sultry succulence, breathless take you by the spine and drag you to your feet kisses that fall down upon upturned lips like lightning, ringing in the ears like thunder, kisses that contain laughter, kisses that taste of salt, every hue or mood that passion may bend itself to will each have its print. All of these though, from the greatest to the least, all pale in comparison to that greatest of all kisses. The next one. The one your lips remember from birth as the faintest whisper of trembling, a dull, wicked ache like a blade scraped over the raw nerve that is you, the one that only exists as a pressure differential, the even if you kiss the same mouth forever and ever promise, the ecstatic, shiver up and down the spine in supreme, expectant, agony of antici…pation kiss. There will be in any life a multitude of kisses, some better, some worse, but I think that it bears noting that the best kiss you will ever or could possibly ever have…is the next one.

Second Hand

My love is an old pair of jeans
Frayed at the edges, with a few holes
Nothing fancy, second or third or fourth hand
Worked in just right though
So when you put it on
It fits well, something comfortable you can wear
On Sundays doing housework
Or lazy autumn walks through the park.

My love is a little battered
A favorite old book, foxed, dog eared
Bearing coffee stains, ink smears where someone wept
Pages wrinkled, torn, thumbed through
Thrown at the wall in anger, dropped into
A used bookshop bin, rummaged through
You know the kind, the ones you find right at the bottom
Unearthed like treasure, that know well and long for
The touch of your hands.

My love is as disreputable
As the faces in Tom Waits songs, slow horns
Tired, rusted, junk drawer pocket watch
Forgotten religious meddles covered in reverent thumbprints
Shabby suited, rumpled, hat in hand
Two bit, low rent, shy shoe two step shuffling
Glad any spare change smiles
You care to toss my way.

It isn’t what it used to be, my love
No, I don’t get to play the hero any more
The white charger got traded in
For a worn out, sad eyed heavy horse broken to the plow
Not quite as flashy, but still possessed of a slow, steady strength
Retired from the lists but still worth a lifetimes labor,
Ready to pull till my heart bursts
Willing to grind itself to dust in hopeless devotion.

So that’s what you get, something used up
But a few good miles left,
Held together with twine and duct tape
It isn’t pretty, but it’ll run
And maybe, just maybe it can still go the distance.