c.2020 Rod Ice
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(11-20)
Too late at the party
Guests gone
No voices lifted in song
Homeowners crashed in their bed
Liquor taste burning
Blankets twisting and turning
Restless friends
Brought our celebration to an end
But here I am
In front of a flatscreen
Filled with B-movie scenes
Woozy, wild
A misbehaving child
Been numb for awhile
Here though I should have made my exit
Here I sit
Here, high-hoping
Still interloping
On the couch, a stubborn guest
Lost in my emptiness
Father, mother
Uncles and the rest
Have gone forward to great success
Their stories written
With a Bic pen
On the back of a paper sack from Wegmans
A tale, long over
Yet for me
The night goes on forever
Feeling out of place
Clothes wet with queso stains
Fingers orange with Doritos dust
In God I trust
Full forgiveness is my desire
But to take that step
Time must expire
I wonder why
This prodigal son is still alive
Still sat on the couch
Drinking, drooping
Nodding out
While everyone else has gone home
Why am I here alone?
Undeserving of exception
Nobody’s favorite son
The celebration
Hours ago was done
Yet on I go, waiting for the sunrise
With bloodshot eyes
I should have died
In that bathtub on Fayette Street
Ithaca, New York
Body taxed with liquor and failure
Abandoned in a wash of bagged ice
God intervened
For whatever reason
It was not my time
Not my season
So here I remain
Long after midnight
Snacks gone stale
Beer cans floating in melted frost
And I ask with widened eyes
“Why why why?”
What miracle kept breath in my lungs
When the party was done?
I am alive
Still on the ride
But God should have let me die
By and by
Slip, slide, and glide
This is what I feel inside
From a Cornell apprenticeship
To West State Street hip
I wore my leather for the camera lens
Went on the air with my friends
Thought the season would never end
Dead Boys and Ramones
Live callers on the telephone
The Clash and Sham 69
We’d go on all night
Till I woke up, middle-aged and bent
Living on a check from the government
Walking with canes
Cataracts and lost contacts
Velcro shoes
Chin wet with Lite beer drool
The leftover yield of a rat in the field
Never to heal
Kick, stomp, and step
This will I never forget
My run with the video artists
The Finger Lakes Jet Set
Now at an end
I sit here alone with cold cigarette butts
Half-empty drinks, abandoned in the sink
The last one awake
What kind of mistake
Keeps me here
Drinking the last beer
Drowning my angst
Until this night
Has passed
Written on my iPhone SE
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