Somewhere along the way
I ate something but never passed it,
and whatever it was, it must have been
growing inside me, requesting meat
when I would have preferred mixed greens,
garbanzo beans, spring water and lime—
and this lack of intestinal fortitude, or
too much, or whatever, this equivocation
weakened me and eventually I
broke something and never got it
looked at by a proper authority—
medical or clerical, dime-store
psychologist or common middle-
manager of color—but harrumphed
along instead, heedless of the speed
with which the sun was fainting
in direct proportion to the rigor
of my daily leaving, creeping away ever
West, as fate would have it,
at this cusp of some genetic cycle
(twisted and stitched all crooked
from bad pork, LSD or maybe
inbreeding on my father’s side)
spawning this push for new frontier,
to dig my ditch and settle down,
backpack and tarp in the town park,
to sleep at last the long dirt nap . . .
or wake again, sans hangover,
song-on-a-wing and soul a-flutter,
wake tomorrow, and just in time for work—
and praise be to change, find myself raised
a quarter over minimum wage—
knowing it was worth the effort to float
a needle on a wine cork and call it north,
sailing for that faeryeland of certain death
called health, wealth, hearth and home.

© 2004 Christian Peet.
Originally published in Snow Monkey