The Lake

The Lake

The Lake looks lovely with this

thick wet Okie raincoat

the hand-me-down tough luck of hands done

handing

hard to say which way

we went wrong

but it damn sure may've been

leaving here

the way we did

all fly by the night and

smug for it

to the promised land

with a chip on our shoulder or

off the old block

as the tongue knows to say

and we all nod along like

we know too

where we're getting at

why we left or if

how we do it makes a difference

I don’t know, but

I do know that

When is a revolving door

I have grown tired of fixing

so it sticks until it becomes,

just is, the dumb luck

buddha,

the infinite reduced to stuck awkward

glass alcove door jam,

to nodding along to nothing

until it offs us

hopeful

begging, even

the revolver's dare, or

whatever we said

When was

is catching up to us

quick as a hangnail

but The Lake

sure does look lovely with this

thick wet Okie raincoat

handed down

again