.................................
Old Howard
(A room in the Super 8 Motel, Columbus, Ohio)
.................................

I was pounded out like a railroad tie
Into the thick filth and rust of this life.
My father was a brakeman, and a dry-
Eyed bourbon jerk. Mother was a dull knife,
Nicked and cracked from years of stabbing and cutting.
They died. I lived. I moved on, just a notch
Above broke, filed for welfare, started gutting
Myself on chowlines, cigarettes and scotch.
Bourbon made me old, prison made me grey.
One blurred my eyes, the other dulled my head.
And any faith I had I drank away
To live like this, half-marred, half-dead.

I'm old. All I've got is drink, the dry sting
Of alcohol, which is poison for some,
But medicine for me. I want nothing.
Nothing but to pound down raw grief, go numb
And forget this grinding, this train whose rusted freight
Is something bitter-dry: not life, but not quite hate.

.................................
Mark Stone
.................................

 
Copyright © Mark Stone
March 1996

...a poem in this room by LeeAnn Heringer...
vermillion dread
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