The Number Nine train to Kansas City

I hit the platform at a slow gallop.
I’ve never been one
for a rush.
I’ve never been the kinda shaky hands
that meant much more than a lack of nicotene
or too much whiskey.

There was a jacket over your head that day
my nervousness and a broken umbrella
a lot of water and not enough container.
You were carrying so much of my possession in your pants pockets.
I’m about two thirds not enough most of the time.

Your street is the end of a long haul
the last exit between me and a thousand yard staredown
with every inch of land I have not stuck my shadow to.
I don’t know why nothing is ever enough for me
Why I am always somewhere
Why I am always running to somewhere else.

That night you gave me shit
for not putting my bed together.
I’m not the resting type, I said.

I wish there were something more to me
than a bottle of rock.n.roll.cliche
and thin metaphor
hatred and a restless head syndrome.
I wish I could say more for myself
than that I ended up here at a run
even if when I started I didn’t mean to.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s