I was a bird in the hand of God.

I was two in the bush,

the yin to my own yang, yang to yin,
drink­ing gin on the porch at mid­night,
or oth­er­wise drink­ing tea – you see

how it is – Bach on Tues­days – Thurs­days
acid rock, tie-dyed t‑shirts and jeans.
Morn­ings I fed the needy and blessed
their souls with sticky kiss­es.
I sang to them and lotioned their feet
with lilac cream and pep­per­mint oil,
hum­bled by their pover­ty, inspired
by the way they got out of bed
with­out cig­a­rettes or cof­fee.
After­noons I cursed their lazy
ass­es and stepped over them
in the streets on my way to the pub
seek­ing a lit­tle warmth or a qui­et cor­ner
in which to pon­der the impli­ca­tion
of lips on brass, to dance, unmo­lest­ed,
with my own shad­ow, which was my worst ene­my,
and, con­spic­u­ous­ly, my only friend.

I was a bird in the hand of God.

I was two in the bush.

I was a pair of white pants in a dri­ve
by pud­dle splash, a drunk with beer down
the front of my shirt. I was ketchup
on my own sleeve, a rash on an oth­er­wise
clear face, a taint­ed, defiled dis­as­ter,
stained by life, soiled and damn near effaced
by that often unrec­og­niz­able prankster,
my trou­ble­mak­er, my dop­pel­ganger,
that saucy vamp, grace.

[print-me]