“Fifteen dollars,” he said,
which widened my eyes.
I knew there’d be a fee
but the amount was a surprise.
Reaching for my wallet,
I discovered I had plenty,
for with the receipts,
two ones and a twenty.
Doubting my chances,
I asked if he had change,
believing that way out here
must be too far out of range.
But he took my Andrew Jackson
and ambled to the gate,
returning a fiver
after a short wait.
When you’re ready, they will be here,
waiting by your bedside, dear.
Or on the kitchen counter, perhaps laying on the couch,
waiting to share some stories you know nothing about.
They’ll be here when excited youth,
drops you into seasoned couth,
and you can pick some new songs, ones with pointed lyrics,
singing beyond the scope of limited empirics.
It didn’t start this way, you know,
free to roam about as I pleased.
Actually, not even now.
I suppose we’re never released.
Before the float, I used to climb
mountains, out from behind the desk,
pushing pen and people so that
my bosses could declare success.
Some seventy thousand hours
over a kaleidoscope screen,
crunching numbers in the backroom,
wondering if I might get seen.
After living with pain for so long, it’s hard to imagine a day without it, but it feels like that day could be approaching soon. Its surreal to even think about. As I write this, another nerve in my back is burning, signaling that yet another stage of healing is about to be completed. Fingers…