Hwy 30

I think
Rodin’s Thinker
depicts an embarrassing super glue accident.
If I follow this street,
I’ll end up in one of two places
I don’t want to be.
At least I’ll know where I am.

God what a tangle,
the city streets made sense
for once
although my destination changed frequently.
Somewhere
over there
there was a woman
and there was me.
I told myself it was good
I left before I broke anything.
Stumbling wide armed through the hallway.
Outside I got hit by a brutal Philadelphia wind
and staggered alone amongst the brutal Philadelphians.
I suppose we have only ourselves to break,
aside for martini glasses and other’s hearts.
and down.
And...

I don’t hide in bars,
no.
I know
where dignity wont go.


So Oregon is better,
my best friend doesn’t recognize me
ha!
The jukebox has changed more than I have
I say when they asked me where I’ve been.
We slouch like snubbed cigarettes
with our mysterious beers.
What's to be said?
I’m not dead!
I’m not dead!
Morbid mantra.
Tomorrow is another
day!
Another one?
I’m done, exits left.
These streets make sense,
I know where you all live.
I know where you all live.
I miss you and what we never had.

I’m in one of two places I don’t want to be.
It’s better though,
this way.
At least I think so.