When I finish my coffin
I’ll wake up the tramp storyteller
and we’ll devour what remains
of life, bite by bite,
mile by mile, off asphalt plates,
washed down with the realization
of impermanence.
He wipes dreams from his eyes
and stands behind the worn, mahogany rail
serving truth, unshaken, never stirred,
ice is extra. No wash to cool
the slow, hard burn. Gulps of wind
off a dusty plain that go down hard,
leave your throat the drier
for having drank.
He polishes the rail
all the while watching with a glaze
that only smiles back
when you look him in the eye.
No lips on him,
only the edges of his mouth
and they never move.
All he needs is in a cloth bag
slung over one shoulder,
always, even when he prays.
When I set down the cloudy,
straight-sided glass
for the last time
he locks the back door,
ties his hair and follows.
The older we get,
the faster we saddle up.
He bends with a grunt and throws
a fistful of dirt against the fender
“so you can outrun them.”
He smiles behind Ray-Bans
at any direction I take off in.
As we peel up hot pavement
the sleepy tramp’s spinneret
pours out the remaining story
of digested miles. “Outrun what?”
“A pack of carrion dogs
follows every lie in your life.
They carry their heads
low to the ground to catch
the sunken rotten scent.
You hope it’s a smile
that twists their mouths,
and you tell new lies
to keep them from leering.
You think you fool them
by deceiving only yourself
until you wish their smile
back into the cold snarl of reality.
“The Maga Dog tells the story
of his own treachery,
and you? You believe him.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Man, you got old.”
“Tell that story.
The way you tell it
makes the headlights work.
The coffin can wait,
wait until the paint
hardens in the fuckin’ can.”
“Watch the road.”
- Guy Western, 2011 © All rights reserved
