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.
