THE WAY IT WAS DURING THAT TIME IN PORT CITY
During that time in Port City,
On some mornings
I’d wake up
and start right in with the beers.
I figured if I got into it early enough,
I could avoid the dry heaves
And snub the inevitable headache.
I’d sit in my little writing den,
Drinking the beers,
Staring at the wall,
Listening to her cry in the room next door.
After maybe six beers I’d walk outside
and lie down in the driveway
and crawl halfway under a parked car.
It was a very sad point in my life
and I was always having this desire to die.
Maybe I just hoped the neighbor,
Or whoever owned the car,
Would not see me and just get in
And run me over.
But this never happened.
Eventually a friend would come find me
and kick at my ribs until I woke up.
I’d stare up at him and he’d say,
“come on, Jack. Let’s go to the bar
and get you something to drink.”
I’d crawl out from under the car,
Get to my feet and dust myself off.
“All right, man. Sure. Whatever you want.
I just don’t care anymore.”