If...

If I won a million bucks,
I'd say God was fast asleep
and Ol' Scratch was in a hurry
to see me, but I'd go.

I'd go back to the sidewalks
where I used to sleep,
to the soup lines where I waited,
drunk or hungover, for a meal.

I'd go see Mouthwash Jimmy
and Crazy Red and Drunk Tammy
who turns tricks with strangers
for the ashtray change.

I'd be Santa Claus, Elvis with an extra
caddy, Jesus with a loaf and a fish, all
for the people who loved me sometimes
and shared their next to nothing with me.

I'd cop dope for the junkies, and
buy bottles of booze for the drunks,
I'd let the girls sit a while and rest
those sidewalk strollin' feet for once.

Wouldn't try and change a soul,
bow a head, or save a life but
I'd share a million with Red, and Jimmy
and the girls who sometimes love me.

Uncle

So your sure he's out,
Dad whispered to Mom
content that I was
watching cartoons
and wouldn't hear.
I learned more stuff
that way- doing that
Zombie stare
in front of the TV.
Sure I'm sure
I got an email from
the department of
corrections- so if
anybody wanted to
go to his parole thingee.
Okay, my dad said,
just dont take any
collect calls.
I almost forgot about it,
then on Easter sunday
we are all sitting there,
in our usual places- me,
Mom and Dad, and
my big sister all in a row
on our pew six
from the front
when this guy wearing
a shiny suit walks in,
and walks right up
and sits with us.
My dad just slides over
and lets him
have the outside,
the Pastor nods at him
and the others keep
turning in thier seats to look.
My dad and him whisper back
and forth and giggle
and the Pastor
looks over again.
After church we all
go out to eat and
him and my dad
drive fast, racing-
and sis was scared
and Mom looked mad
but I wasn't sure.
After dinner him and Dad
fought for the check
and Dad ended up with it-
so he gives me a
hundred dollar bill
and says split that
with your sister.
After that I never
really saw him again
but I did hear lots of stories.
Dad passed a couple of
years back, and Mom
doesn't know but
I write my uncle letters
and send him money
in the fed joint where
he's at up North.

Passing By

You eat
Chef Boyardee
spaghetti and meatballs
right out of
the pan you
warmed them in,
and read the
words of Keasey
and Plath
and Cassidy
sitting on a
ten dollar sofa
that you picked
up at Goodwill
with the help
of a buddy who
owns a truck
and keeps a cooler
filled with beer
in the back,
most of the time.
And you try
to remember
what it was like
before
in the new
brick house,
wife and kids
sitting at your feet.
Then wiping
the orange grease
from your fingers,
onto the leg of
your pants
you think to yourself:
the past
is the only thing
more frightening
than the future.