Things aren’t so good at home.
So, when Dad conks out,
after the doorslamming, wallpunching,
dogkicking, hysterical cursing ceases,
I steal the keys and cross the river to D.C.;
to drink legally in topless bars,
ogling bored sluts tease.
So far this year they (not the dancers)
shoot King, Bobbie, thousands of soldier boys;
LBJ throws in the towel; war rages distantly,
televized in your face.
My draft card, despite turned eighteen
last October, in lieu of 1-A, reads: 1-SH;
standing NOT for: One Shit Head.
My keenest memory
from that blear called ’68:
find myself stopped at a light;
wee hour, road empty.
Crack the door;
tilt chin over asphalt;
copiously bepuke the
double-yellow. Contemplate, under
a foot from my nose, rejected booze.
Light strobes green. Wrestle door
shut; right self in seat; hands
Cruise the ununderstandable night, a
drunk and very lucky warm bucket of spit.
Jumpcut to carport; exit vehicle;
stagger inside split-level
upstairs to bed,
Dad’s vodka snores strangling the dark;
Mom, beside the breadwinner,
Amazingly – credits rolling –
hero pinned as me –
spinning in my room off to sleep –
fail to focus enough to masturbate,
for once in a moon super and blue.