The asphalt
parking lot
a rainbow
of petroleum
sheen
on this mornings
fallen rain,
a train whistle
crying
from a long
time ago.
The news print
sky still
sore from
it's passion,
and something
in all this
bears a sense
of nostalgia
that gives
me pause.
Struggling against
the past,
like bad nicknames
or Chinese
finger cuffs,
sticks me,
like cartoon
quicksand, my
greatest
childhood fear.
I worry this day,
but not of days gone.
I worry that
in Dublin
they'll laugh
at me,
calling me
the gobshite son
of Billys
gone over.
That appalachian
poets who
drive hacks now
in New York
will find me
esoteric, and
ask if I read.
That whiskey
voiced girls
cut from
misogynist cloth
will
dismiss me
quickly,
a dog and
pony show
who'd rather
get high.
On prison grey
mornings,
all these
things cause me
concern,
but mostly I fear
that one day
I will meet
her
and I will
no longer be
able
to be sad.
If I meet
her
will I ever
be happy to
write?
