Every once in a while, I get a hall pass,
which is good because I need enemies,
and they're not always easy to locate.
Sometimes, all it takes is rolling over.
But other times, you need to look alive,
you need to scrub yourself down and turn on
that last vestige of charisma, madness,
that fatherly recoil, over the line,
that smile onto the not-so-great beyond,
where all of us are used-to-be lovers.
Every once in a while, I stay out late—
and cab it home in volts of memory,
cast in relief by my town of outcasts.
originally published in Fjords Review