I'm lost. I'm afraid. A frayed rope tying down a leaky boat to
the roof of a car on the road in the dark, and it's snowing. If
I'm more, then it means less. Last call for happiness. I'm
your dress near the back of your knees and your slip is
showing. I'm afloat. A float in a summer parade, up the street
in the town that you were born in. With a girl at the top
wearing tulle, and a Miss Somewhere sash, waving like the
queen. Beauty's just another word I'm never certain how to
spell. Go tell the nurse to turn the TV back on, and throw
away my misery. It never meant that much to me. It never
sent a Get Well card. I broke like a bad joke somebody's
uncle told at a wedding reception in 1972, where a little boy
under a table with cake in his hair stared at the grown-up feet
as they danced and swayed. And his father laughed and
talked on the long ride home. And his mother laughed and
talked on the long ride home. And he thought about how
everyone dies someday, and when tomorrow gets here where
will yesterday be. And fell asleep in his brand-new winter
coat. Buy me a shiny new machine that runs on lies and
gasoline, and all those batteries we stole from smoke-alarms,
and disassembles my despair. It never took me anywhere. It
never once bought me a drink.