We're only as good as we look under fluorescent lights.

Rabbits chase the cats
in these regulation daymares
as the lightning bug's last glow
wastes in the shadow of the stove.
It's a lousy consolation
when God writes us a rain check.

The women like the scars
until they hear who put them there.
My calf muscle dangles
from the back of my leg.
I reach down and grab
where the cramp ripped me awake.
Again. Again. It's happening again.

We don the lay-off cowboy boots
and listen to the blue-hairs sing:
"It wasn't in the cards, Kid.
They would've been like you."

Opt for the reading lamp
since the ceiling light
looks too much like
the end of a tunnel.
They've tired us enough
with that ugly lie called hope.

(The rabbits win. It makes no sense.
The cats run down the steps.)
I guess that's the Roman in me.


Currently reading:
"A Terrible Glory: Custer and the Little Bighorn, the Last Great Battle of the American West" by James Donovan.