Both Jonesin' for a Spoon

This nagging half-sickness finally comes in handy.
One stuffed nostril wakes me from my dream.
My partner in crime was trying his hardest
to convince me to enter an underground tunnel
we found in a seedy back alley somewhere.
I had to remind him that I'd been the voice
of reason since we first met in fourth grade
and that my blood had not been kissed
by the unfairly annointed good luck of the Irish.
Oh, and we were Ghostbusters. The slumbering
plumber shows his age through his heroes
as well as a touch of ironic desire.

A few hours later I call him to check
what he wanted to tell me at one in the morning:
that his meeting went well, that he loves me for caring
that he's trying his hardest to do the right thing.

For him that means waking up before noon
without the wrong person or belt on his arm.
I know that he'll make it, he knows that he has to
since this kind of chance doesn't beg when it knocks.
There's hope for the homeless, scripts for the addicts
and perhaps, if played right, some love for the lost.
If we can both rise from our pasts in this town
with a moat and a bridge and our saints to protect us
then maybe it's not too far-fetched to say
that our ghosts, like our trade, have limited days.