Me & the Don

we got it goin’ on

there on the fields of gold

as the sky cartwheels

the sun high on my head

& I don’t understand the ghosts

playing out here in dead casas

strange writing on the walls

green scale lizards skittering by

& if there was a ragged windmill

I’d tilt my rusted lance let it fly

my thoughts baked in the heat

the heat & the light enough

for this rustic choking on dust

wondering just just

who thought it might be a great idea

walking through this scorched landscape

I did not know

what I was doing most days

pinging around like a pinball

buffeted between flippers

ricocheting from place to place

trying to make sense of it all

& every now & then

the game would go tilt

die on me

& I’d have to start over

some of those times

I’d end with nothing

be homeless no place to stay

I’d put a box here a bag there

& try to sleep wherever I could

the worst of being on the street

is the tired

not being able to be safe

makes it hard to get good sleep

& you end up 24 hour tired

making poor decisions

grabbing on to whatever

comes your way

might end the torment

which is why I ended up

with some of the shack jobs I did

other mad fools needing sleep

somewhere someone something

to hold on to

might provide a minute of peace