Monday, June 20, 2016
written with a drunkard's hope by jake kilroy.
with barely a scratch
on this double-headed coin i call a conscience,
i bounded through the south like a carpetbagger
back for forgiveness with an insider tip-off about the rapture.
i bought low life and sold high praise
before returning home to a wife
who thought i was only
gone for the weekend.
you could be loved anywhere, i tell myself,
shaving and dabbing blood
in a ramshackle cottage
my grandfather built
with hands that worked the war machines.
meanwhile, you could be a god
if your hands and moral compass
weren’t shaky from drink.
but that takes courage.
that takes honesty.
that takes away from a spirited demise
and you’ve only got one life to ride into the wilderness.
better luck next time.