Lost Weekend

Michael walked huddled through the valley of the shadow that followed him all night long,
Cast, fading then glowing, fading then glowing,
By the shine of bright halogen light meant to illuminate and show the way.
Micheal built a bridge. Michael burned it down.

Bibles on the tables at the last place he ate, with plastic knives,
Plastic forks and plastic spoons, cold canned chili never so delicious.
The rat stole the bread, wasn't that something to laugh about?
And he fought like a soldier for a blanket on the floor.

Cold wind pushed him forward to the Great Unknown.
Cold and shivering
Someone stole his coat while he was giving blood.
He kicked himself for leaving it in the lobby.

He said, "What kind of fool am I, how did I get here?
Was I so naive as to think someone wouldn't have taken it?
These ghosts are every bit as desperate as I am."
Michael built a bridge. Michael burned it down.

"I would have done the same thing cuz goddamn it's cold,
This void of uncertainty, this sentence I've been handed.
Time drags so slow I cannot feel it pass.
Nowhere to go. Go to be going. It tires me."

He sat on a porch last night with grizzled, bent sages
The sweet sick smell of alcohol floating like fog from their mouths.
"In this world," the sober one said,
"You've got to learn to fight and beg."

He knew in his heart of hearts
He could do neither.
So his fate on the mean streets was good as sealed.
Michael built a bridge. Michael burned it down.

It wasn't quite so bad when he still had that coat.
It was torn and frayed from the frost of older days
But the pockets were deep and warm.
His hands belonged there.

It gave some comfort when the chill came on.
When his legs were getting sore, he had to stop and rest.
In the slate brick awning of the old Indian school
He'd lain down to nap but his eyes wouldn't close.

It wasn't time to dream of how things used to be
Or how they all wound up being tossed to the wayside
Or to prophesy a future somehow rising from these ashes
Of the bridge that Michael built, of the bridge that Michael burned down.

Now Michael wishes he had stolen one of those Bibles,
Onion paper pages hard to turn
But good kindling for a fire on this cold night
In the valley of the shadow

Without a coat.