Far From Lucky Fer

 

Lately, she said, I have been anywhere

But home. It has a name like Lucky Fer

Or Dottle on the Wold. I can’t recall.

Under the placard of the Wain & Wheel

I dropped a stitch; since, nothing’s been the same.

Except the weather. Only goats and old

Couples, planning their schedule of buffets,

Talk weather. I’ve not been home in a while,

There, where the ogres show off photographs

Of me in rompers, me in maryjanes,

Me at the top of Mt. St. My Backyard.

Fools and hearses live there. At my day school

The smartest girls are crying loudest. Roughs

Trade your pocket change for their oaths and blows.

Chickens display their legs; the best boys beat

Time with them. Down, they holler. Sweet, get down.

Bastard’s the town for me, a red-brown mess

Of clay and jalapeños. I have changed

My name for numbers. I am 26

This week. Next time it may be more or less,

The number of my blessings on the road.

Damme & Blast, still working on my wheels,

I won’t shove off tonight. Texas must wait.

Nightlife is like a punishment. I’ll sleep,

She says a bunch. Under the swinging sign

of Fills-A-Lot, she asked for regular

And washroom. She said, Knowing when you need

New belts and filters, all your fluids topped,

Is like a transplant: life beats in me yet.

She was on foot and headed to the east.

I been there, she said. I been everywhere.

And if you’ll cash my check, I will be gone.