I don't know what day it is.
just another day
as blanched of flavor
as grandma's boiled peas.
The gray hour.
The newsprint on the porch
is still warm from the delivery guy's
dented Honda's front seat.
He was listening to death metal
and getting donut sugar
all down his Raiders jersey.
The paper hit the porch today
with a satisfying splat.
He never reads the paper he tosses,
it's just a another shitty job.
Better than washing dishes
at Arby's though.
A least no asshole manager
always crawling up his ass.
I know what that's like.
I used to throw the news
out the window of a beater Honda too.
But I had better music.
The ink today is full of exuberant reports
of tanks and flags and toppled statues.
The guy in line at Rite Aid yesterday,
getting his Lipitor and Viagra refills,
was reminiscing warmly about his war
when Saigon spread her legs for him.
I pitied him. Until I remembered mine.
I have a thousand echos
of top 40 hits, I must have
heard a thousand times,
all those years ago.
Those laments and jubilations
pickled in every cell,
when I drove like a robot on
four-in-the-morning streets
flinging yesterday's news
and overnight scores
out the window
with a satisfying splat.
I don't know what day it is,
but the masthead says it's Friday.
Maybe after work I'll wash my car
and drive out to the coast.
Play all those songs
I got so tired of back then.
Pretend that I am young.
