you’re like some kind of Bukowski
kind of drunk and disorderly in your soul
debauched and distended from trauma and hard lessons

you walk alone all the time

even enveloped in children’s hugs and words and laughter

you walk alone and I watch you from here
head heavy with some kind of love
but not love
but love
and tears that stream effortlessly onto the page

because I try to walk alone but I hate it and I fight it

you can’t help it

They took your connection away
They stole your childish laughter and boundless joy
They treated you like a thing in a cage and bound you
You were their charge to exploit

and you walk alone, dragging the chains from that cage
and I watch you comment on the dull throb of humanity through that ache
and that thing they made you isn’t all you all the time
but you can’t be convinced otherwise

at least not by some ersatz one-time lover who analyzes you while deep in lusty diatribes

oh Chuck, I hope for a day
when you’ll be able to get up
off that beat up mattress
and leave the bleak and crumbling four walls
that feed all the the fury and deathly pale empty hate

and walk out into the sun
and feel it on your skin
and cry for joy at the little things
and your children’s hands and feet
and feel and feel just everything

and that you’ll take someone with you while you walk
and let them see your scars and heart
as dark as it is
you’re worthy of sunshine and redemption
you’re not hopeless, even if you have little will to fight

that sad, broken room will always be there when you want to visit
when you want to sit down on a wobbly chair
and pour out the disgust and despair that will rise
but you don’t have to live there

go sit outside and watch people for awhile
look for a smile
look for some kind gesture
something you’d like to find
love it or hate it
and tell us everything

we’ll just stay here
walking behind
waiting for the invitation
to join you
when walking alone feels more alone than sublime


5 thoughts on “drifter

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