by Doug Draime
A bird chirps outside my trailer
(if it was inside I might have something:
watching it spread its wings to fly before I set it free).
On my back on the bed
exhausted with seemingly every
muscle and bone in my body
babbling in pain,
from the job.
And I start to worry about my sons.
Over the radio 2 idiots scream
other, one is on the political right
the other on the left.
Both are full of deep rank shit,
who defines themselves in such
moronic and dull terms.
I turn the dial searching
for some classical
music; some rock,
jazz, Brazilian toe jam dancers,
anything but the insipid wailing
of the insane and warring world. I come across
George Gershwin’s Promenade, and
settle back on the bed.
I hear the
bird; it approves and is
Another day tomorrow at
the $8.25 an hour job-
which gives me just enough
money to pay the rent, child support;
it keeps me in food, cigarettes, beer
and typing paper.
and some Chopin
is on. Rain is starting to fall,
tingeing on the roof like stray buckshot.
And I wonder where the bird has flown for
and I wonder how long my body
can take it,
and I wonder when I will settle with my lot,
and I wonder how long the global
madness will continue,
and I wonder if my sons are safe,
and I wonder again where the bird has flown for
Chopin ends and some music I don’t
recognize comes on. Rain falls
heavy and the wind is blowing.
- ► 2010 (221)
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