Scattered About
A mother in Oregon, a father in Boston,
one sister in Portland, another in Scotland,
and I’m somewhere between East Texas and New Orleans,
smoking in a barroom watching a game of pool
through the haze from last night’s run
from long lost friends and times.
This ain’t a whiskey poem,
but a shout to someplace I can call home.
If the past can’t be caught, maybe the future can.
I stub out my cigarette and let it rest with the dead.
It’s time. The run begins.
I might just get far enough ahead of the past
to start afresh.
The barroom door opens before me,
and closes behind me.
Page(s) 111
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