Phoenix, AZ
Boy,
when I heard about bone chips
in an ankle that’d never heal,
I could really relate.
I could relate to the daily ache,
the daily grinding of a joint
that I can’t ever really remember
ever
really working properly.
When I saw the same grinding in life,
and not the grind of working,
the grind of grifting and
the grind of struggling and
the grind of drinking
night after
night after
night after
night after
night after
night after
night,
I knew that feeling, too;
sometimes it’s
like there’s no way out,
like that whole way
is
the only way.
When I heard that
same
old
refrain:
maybe I’ll clean up,
maybe I’ll shape up,
maybe I’ll put together some money
hahahahahahahahahahah
and
maybe
it’ll all change.
I understand
that old song and dance.
“But, doctor! I am the clown!”
I am the man
who wears the mask
and
who paints his face;
I am the man who laughs
when he should cry,
and
I am the man who cries
when he should laugh.
And that man playing at Santa Claus
I see every year,
I see the age in his face,
I hear the miles in his voice.
I see the bone chips in his gait
and I know all about him.
