I am coming
the second coming this year
preceded by my friends’ same
worn routine:
“When will you come?
Today? This hour?
In a month, or two,
or…what?
We’ll have cold beer!
Maybe even a keg!
And will sit at your feet
listen to stories
of places you’ve been.”
I wish I could raise them
to their feet and shake each
calloused hand of those
that have remained to work
on the farms or in the plant.
Show them I am no better
because I’ve been at the
un-i-vers-ity, bein’ pointless
book l’arned while they’ve been
workin’ workin’ workin’
punchin’ the clock at 7 A.M.
shortly after I’ve fallen asleep.
I’ve no good stories to tell,
no knowledge to bestow
that they haven’t already
known for years.
Here are my hands
to prove it, the scars have healed.
Now they are just useless,
long spindly fingers, that could
and would snap in an instant.
Here are my sides
free of marks–bruised
& broken ribs, this is what
the years have given me,
what they have taken away.
And I can’t drink much,
anymore.
