The Bug Man ran game tables, drop the dot,
knock the pin down, rings over bottle tops.
His Boston accent gave his pitch a bray
you could hear over rides, kids and rock music.
His patter was flawless, slightly condescending,
and totally off the cuff.
He didn't see his hustle as fleecing the public,
precisely, rather as a Darwinian challenge to improve
the species.
He was educated, banal, and without many scruples.
His wife and girl were fed well and happy.
Last I saw of the Bug Man was in St. Louis,
when he dropped me off on a highway on-ramp
pointed vaguely north-east.
He shook my hand, a twenty tucked into my palm.
Gave me the honor of a carny's send-off;
Catch you in the next town.

Slick was a wrangler at one of the larger traveling Carnivals.
Through a season we would do business four, five times.
Through out the south, on every midway, every newly bare hay field,
you asked a carny about a man named Slick, they knew who you meant.
You'd think in a culture that lives by different rules than most
no one would rise to the status of barely being tolerable
let alone respected, Slick was.
He knew what he was doing, he put on no airs,
he knew when to bend and when to say hell no.
The only times I saw Slick riled was when he had to deal with a fool.
Slick asked him , " Who the hell are you to waste both our time like this?"
Slick walked power cords like tight wires,
juggled forty things in one hand and thirty three with the other.
He knew safety codes, local preferences, phone numbers and names.
Roustabouts and game wagons, foodies and barkers, would likely
rob a citizen of hard earned coin, ( everyone knows how this game works),
truckers like me who followed the shows all summer with wire, bulbs and plugs.
Slick was the one man we all knew, and if your name was good with him,
it was good with us.

There will be a day, I think, I guess, I know,
when the fires of the flesh bank and burn low.
One day the fireworks will end.
On that day lets be friends.
I would rather marvel at the lines of your face,
hear your stories, and let my heart race
to the smell of you, and the way you fit
all my curves and bulges when we sit
and watch movies and sip wine from the bottle.

So maybe our hackles don't raise anymore.
Less the heavy breathing and more the s'mores.
I guess it comes down to the end of wanting to run.
You have long been my friend and at times the one
who shared a sense of the darkness that seems to hover
at the edges of the day, and offer if not sunshine, cover.
There is something to be said for knowing sanctuary
is familiarity and routine and sameness; you know; ordinary.
Watching movies, drinking from the same bottle of wine.

I duck under a guillotine
every time I enter a bar.
I know the blade is sharp,
the trigger almost invisible.
Walked into a thousand dives
from Michigan to Thailand,
Alaska to Tijuana.
Once the gloom leaves the eyes
the rooms look familiar.
Threats and conquests
taken in one glance,
juke box, bathroom, back door
the next.

Now I'm older and wiser,
I tell myself,
better at getting along.
I know every day has its own
wicked blade.
Whispering names,
humming to itself.
Inanimate, cold,
a tool of time.
Makes the surprise of each day
joyful.

Memorial Day

They brought a Hero home today.
The brass of his casket was polished,
the flag that covered it crisp and new.
The Honor Guard carried him
past planes,family, Color Guard.
Their shoes were as black
as the storm-ridden May sky.
Forty Harley's shouted their pride,
the Patriot's Guard Riders pulled
off the tarmac, the hearse close behind.
Me,old sailor, old cabbie,
saluting the procession,
eyes suddenly tearing,
tears unnoticed.

Closer To Blue

Closer to blue today than when we walked in the city.
Together, alone, drenched in light and the gaze of strangers.

I'm closer to blue than I was yesterday, in the park.
The silent cat-tail stalks, like fingers accusing heaven.

When you faded to blue, all the things I love did too.
I am drenched in silence, lost in the world, way closer to blue.