Neverman
SHADOWS
We wander the ghost lanes of
our lost souls, coat collars turned
up against the blistering cold.
There is nothing left to gamble.
All bets were off, for us, a long
time ago. Time is all that’s left,
It’s the kind one serves like a
prison sentence.
We huddle beside the Mission,
smoke caged cigarettes, wait for
it to open: prayer, meal, lights out
at ten, spectral dreams with
phantom men.
Prayer? What is there to pray for?
Tomorrow we will rise slowly,
as from a graveyard like dead men,
and haunt the world again.

DEAD BOLT
Key in the wrong door, maybe it will open
to something better?
I hear two doors close behind the locked one
The sound is final, my visit done.
I grew up near a race track, horses, dogs.
All the races were fixed.
There was a sign staked near the entrance
someone hammered into the ground.
“Jesus Finds The Lost.”
Lost bets I wondered?
No, the lost find Jesus, I concluded.
Not as good as scoring money but they
have to win something.
I’ll end this poem with a conversation
with a homeless person.
“Are you lost?” I ask him.
“I’m homeless. Can you spare some
change?”
“Maybe. I’m writing a poem. So far
it has no meaning. I was hoping you could
give it some.”
“You want meaning from a bum?”
“I’ll take it from anyone.”
“You need the right key to open the right
door. If you never find that key you’ll
be locked out forever.”
I gave him some change anyway.

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