Everyone is asleep in this room
On the 17th. It’s a tick into Father’s Day
And I’m thinking of you in Saint Pete’s.
Street lamps brighten all the way to the pink
Neon Farmer’s Market. No one’s out, pops.
It’s ghostly and you wouldn’t like it here any
Way. Bad hair, tattoos, piercings, a fucking
Gong show, though, I hear the fishing’s good.
And light is in the sky till ten. We mostly ate
Walked and said no to panhandlers. On the way
Here, a gray Chevy cruised by. Windshield was
Cracked and there were boxes in the back seat.
The driver weaved in and out of rush hour like
You used to before you had your beer. Carved
On the trunk were words that summed you up
In the sixties and me right now: I wasn’t born
With enough middle fingers.