Rig

Courtyards and stairwells full of blood and urine

And the aftermath of a moment’s impulsive rage

The status-post of Night Train, and misgivings

Etches permanent specters of broken spectacles in places not often visited

Framed by a steady-scarlet burn

And backlit by grill strobes

Like a demon’s slide show or a harshly lit film noir

Floating above the mean concrete streets

The higher we go the less attached we are

And those moments that were so vivid, they fade when the new arrive

Like your partner’s face, lit by a stock Ford dome light

I’m too tired to read the street names

Navigating on instinct and blurred, glassy vision

Wailing through the streets, sirens bounce back from buildings and overpasses

Those sounds, smells, and sights crochet a kind of blanket

To smother tears and warm compensatory mechanisms

A down-counting clock, synchronized with my dwindling tolerance

For anything standing between me and home, or solace

Same poor, stupid crying bitch

Same poor, stupid dying bastard

Watch as they call out for help and push what’s there away

Patients pleading for absolution in their darkest hours

Ignoring the nearby, blue-clad lifelines

Would-be guardians with scowls and worn personalities

Soles caked with mud, and flaked red with blood

She wheezes then stops breathing

He seizes and his heart stops beating

Muscle memory and training dictate the next fourteen steps

During the long shower, once at home in quiet

The water rushing down from head, to body, to tile

You’d clean it all off, were you able to reach the real dirt inside

But were you able, you wouldn’t be here in the first place