A POEM - I WAS THE BASTARD THAT WOULD DIE HAVING HAD A GOOD RUN

I WAS THE BASTARD THAT WOULD DIE HAVING HAD A GOOD RUN
Out there in Jakarta the rain drove down,
Making the streets into one sloppy, filthy maze,
With no real way out for miles.
But I was inside, holed up in another dirty room,
No seat on the toilet,
Water that only dripped out of the faucet,
And cigarette burns covering any horizontal surface.
I was paying my dues to the word gods,
Thinking, “well, this is it, old boy.
These are you last few days in SE Asia,
And this is exactly how you should be spending them.”
Onto the next continent for new exploits,
New words about new places and new people.
I was looking forward
to speaking the local language again.
Looking forward to easily understanding time tables,
And not getting scammed or ripped off constantly.
Being able to hitch hike again,
And not asked for money upon getting a ride.
Sure I had my worries,
where to sleep at night in an expensive country,
where to find illegal work, that type of thing.
But I knew it would all work out in the end, finally.
And if it didn’t, then what the hell?
Australia was famous for its remote outback.
I’d just wander off into the woods and give it up.
I’d made it that far,
and maybe that was fuckin’ far enough.
Besides, no matter where I was, I’d die comfortably,
Comfortable in the knowledge that at my funeral,
my buddy would honestly declare, standing over my grave,
“well, that bastard had a good run.
Nobody here can say he didn’t.”