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.