Torpedo On the Road

There are mornings
when I must remind myself
I am not Dimitri Karamazov.
Or Ivan. Or Alyosha. Or any of those
Brothers Dostoyevsky dreamed up.
Or am I?

It won't pay to correct them:
It's not a new me they're seeing--
it's the old one, with friends
and the same wanton desire
to decorate the mahogany
with crumpled dollar bills

and that impeccable timing
which tugs at ventricles
like when a nicotine fix
calls me to the sidewalk
right on cue to see my ex drive by
shaking her fists, regardless.
But now you know better
than to blame the cigarette
the clock, and most of all
the skirts:
It's you at the helm;
you and some greedy ghosts.

So what do we do?
We hang prints they gave us
many moons prior
to decipher what they saw
in a spark bound for gas.
We pitch perfect double-headers
and choke down rotten grapes
while recalling glory days
unscathed by sucking bottles
with flame arrestors on them.
Now a stiff wind makes our heart jump

and some nights
truth be told
the rest of us wants to follow.

What do you know of being unhinged?
Of having a compass that doesn't point north?
We didn't notice our shoes missing.
You didn't notice our wave.

"...As we forgive those who trespass against us."