Sing for Your Supper

We're all born

the same way

fresh and blank

with factory settings.

It's what we do over decades

and how we age that defines us:

which joints and topics ache;

which remedial vices

and coping mechanisms

help temporarily;

what are the side effects

of those?

I can't tell you when 

rain's en route

but I'm mindful

of how I lift and bend at work

and I know when to kneel

on a piece of foam insulation

instead of concrete.

My hair's thinning, 

my beard's getting lighter

and the left half of my chest

has started to go gray

over my heart

so when I'm done 

reiterating phrases

from those who taught me 

as an apprentice

I ask these young men

under my charge--

"Do you love her?"

I cite the warnings

of coffee break tales

robbed pensions

and child support

but remind them that time's

our most precious commodity.

"Don't wait past 28."

They probably hit their vapes

and forget what I've said

once those tall boys 

take hold at night

but I sleep better

having known I've tried

staring down an ashtray

that's more full

than the latest bottle.

It's a lonely life

but someone's got

to laugh at it.

Unlucky Boxers

We all had that friend

with a BB in his face--

the answer man

with a lion's share

of walking pneumonia.

Shorthand in muscle memory

as smooth as silk

they rent him out for parties

every now and then.

Like unattended candles

we sing it with conviction.

There's no abacus present

at campfire tales.

Defrocked means

not photogenic.

The synopsis

is bleak at best

a refresher course 

in the way you taste:

dead gardens

blood gutters

set back to factory settings

fed too well

to survive the apocalypse

barring acts of god

and men with axes.

Currently reading:

"Catalogue of Bannerman's Island Arsenal, No. 30-A" by Thom Johnson.

Remington Retirement Plan

Defending creative control

technophobe:

"Your bruises, they suit you."

It sutures the same.

Emergency contact

what's your mark

on the world?

Inflatable lovers

our dreams have expired.

In dark rooms we laid

where the sun

couldn't reach us;

neither the truth

nor our avatar faces.

The cellars we've seen

of the savvy still haunt:

This chapter

"Survival"

will be a hard read.