July 3, 2008
Old Man Jack once told me:
"If you don't get out,
a city
will sink its teeth into you."
Then he sat back and took a mouthful of Jim Bean,
and our freight kept on rolling West,
and some time in the night one of us fell under the wheels
in the middle of the line, where they don't bother
to pick up the pieces;
and Old Man Jack was shanked to death in California—
and I kept on.

The weather turned bitter while
yardbulls chased me near Indiana.
My sneakers were falling apart and I backtracked into Kentucky;
I cooked for a dreamer heading to Hollywood with
stolen food from grocery stores,
and after a while, day jobs kept me fed.
I found myself back home by April,
but by May, I heard Old Man Jack say:
"If you don't get out,
a city
will sink its teeth into you."
And I kept on.

An old friend offered me a Chicago job but
I turned it down because
it was warm enough to walk Atlanta's summer;
I bought a new jacket and showered in a cheap motel
and the self-inflictions glowed in the moonlight—
I dreamt happy;
it was September and I was back home.
But by October, I heard Old Man Jack say:
"If you don't get out,
a city
will sink its teeth into you."
And I kept on.

A shag rug on the floor of a flithy Brooklyn apartment
kept my toes warm.
And Maine looked beautiful in November;
I slept next to a building's furnace
in Boston,
but by December, I was home for Christmas.
Come January, I heard Old Man Jack say:
"If you don't get out,
a city
will sink its teeth into you."
And I kept on.

By the side of the road in the rain,
everything blurred:
I imagined a house with a picket fence,
a wife and two children playing;
I threw up blood next to the offramp
as a semi rumbled along, shaking my bones.
The exit signs flashed razorblades—
I heard Old Man Jack say:
"If you don't get out,
a city
will sink its teeth into you."
and my eyes watered and I said:
"I don't want to run anymore."

But I kept on.
                        

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© 2008 zygoteinmycoffee Ink.
An Illusion of Home
by F.D. Marcel