| Looking for the Win-Win in all this wishful drinking
|
| got me thinking that I ought to pray in wordless groans
|
| and be fed ambrosia by the doves
|
| but they’d hold me to what I said once;
|
| years or hours ago, I can’t be trusted- only thrown
|
| I keep spinning my wheels
|
| maybe nothings gonna change
|
| I keep dreaming about the sheriff’s kid who I used to chew Skoal with
|
| he was cruel to the other kids just for fun
|
| I always sought them out later on, but I never had the stones to tell him off
|
| he died alone years ago on a golf course with a gun
|
| and I’m here spinning my wheels
|
| maybe nothings gonna change
|
| Time was, I could stand up straight, but I lost my balance with the ballast
|
| weight
|
| cast over the gunwales, overboard
|
| I got nothing left to push up against but this imaginary resonance
|
| starting at a spot on the opposite shore
|
| and despite our sins we would not sink; |
| we were
|
| buoyed by some brackish grace
|
| our mouths like an ocean drink, we salt-shone in the sun
|
| and the grackles learned the car alarms
|
| keeping all the neighbors warned
|
| and lovers armed
|
| I do believe we’re going down. |