Sleeping beneath
Goodwill blanket and sheets,
the first rattle of winter
against the windows,
I take tension into
every breathing day.
Feral, almost criminal,
I drive back threats, toss back
tavern shots and beers.
No matter where I strike,
any lie or line will work.
Labels cut from my suit,
I wear a 10X Resistol
with a Montana crease.
I take my Bible from
the back of the bookstore,
an ironwood cane into any fight.
Sun-struck, at a streetlight
my lover pauses in
clothes-fashion of rags and holes,
tee shirt dense, holding
Milagro Silver tequila and
homemade tamales in a bag.
We look for the
random things to be revealed,
swarms of symbolism to sort out.
We have two conversations:
“How do you join license and revolution?”
“What are the paycheck strategies
at the End of Times?”
Groomed to form answers,
we’re forced to hoard
nickels and quarters,
ragged singles, the solitary ten.
I’ve taught myself
a narrative of possessions,
the ceremonies that reward.
Save your words, she says,
for the cop car in an alley,
pleadings to a caseworker.
Late returning, indentured
through callous need,
we’re learning a life in the rain.