john sweet

in the nowhere age, still

like a love song at the
cautious end of august 

like a suicide written in
blood across the basement wall

remember celia in the
summer of ’74?

stopped smiling, stopped
dreaming, stopped believing in
the prophecies of de chirico

left the rest of us to
grow up without her

to grow old alone

probably seemed pretty
goddamned funny
at the time

Not an apology, but a muttered threat

was cold in a
sun-filled room 

end of february

shitty insulation and
cardboard walls 

someone playing the
beatles in
another part of the house and
a cat sleeping at the foot of the bed and
what were my chances
for escape?

less than zero or
worse than that
even

one faceless town as
forgettable as the next

one bad joke and then
another and then
another but it helped to keep
a sense of humor 

it helped to stay pissed

learned that from my father
back before he gave up on
everything and
everyone 

tried my hardest not to
teach it to my sons