I refuse to sleep on
road trips
in case the car goes rogue
and there’s time to pull the handle
and
throw myself to safety.
I’ll play those odds
though keeping alive
means getting old
and laying friends to rest,
though keeping alive
means further scars along
the spirit flesh of the heart.
It’s what we do.
We take the blows
for spaces between the blows
lending chances to laugh with mates,
to kiss a lover,
to read a quote or two.
Not much else. It’s bittersweet,
really,
but
worth it.
Delight,
at junctures in every breath,
walks the gallows
but hangmen take sickies too.
It’s bittersweet
but we keep ourselves alive for
little else.
It’s worth it though.
I don’t know why
but it is.
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