If he coughs and sputters enough,
He can almost feel what it is like –
The mechanical grinding of sparks and carburetors
and how they hiss at him and tell him
He’s nothing but an enabler.
That he pushes too hard and won’t take no for an answer,
That the parking lot behind the porn shop
Is not the place he’s thought he’d be
All those years ago when he was making plans.
And if he coughs and sputters enough,
He’ll slow his pace down, try to catch his breath,
But he’ll be the only one on that sidewalk
With his lungs open in anticipation
as the windstreams of downtown traffic swell the air –
As each gasp fills his chest with stagnation,
As each knee slips closer to the cement and
He coughs and sputters what sounds like a prayer
To the sun making its way through the skyscrapers.
Then at the time when his penance has been paid
He wears his froth like a beard, and emaciated –
A band of angels ferries his body across the river
where he waits in a stupor,
Spitting at the clock, the fresh saliva on his cheeks refracting a prism
And for a few minutes his life is an oiled canvas
and he’s swimming in it
But when God comes to punch his timecard and
He clears out his desk, he coughs and he sputters again
Because the shadows are lengthening in the west
And, friend, your home is out east.
