Clean and sober.
Fresh out of cigarettes.
Like a virgin.
These are the days my grandfather warned me about.
Where your back gets soft and fragile.
Pins and needles on the edge of the table.
That numb hook that used to be your hand.
Soldier on.
Although I was almost a pacifist.
That year I lost to many machines.
Green machine.
Hate machine.
Heart machine.
God machine.
Larry took the escalator at the last minute.
Said a few words between rasps, then high fived Jesus.
There are tiny pieces of that man with me.
Everyday when I check for encroaching baldness
or mumble something about bunkers, bombshelters, and booze
Some are more literal.
Like the tiny disc of silver I carry
or the stripped and dormant piece in my dresser.
I'd like to think they matter.
But more than anything
always
remember
these days.