It’s Not The Years, Honey, It’s The Mileage

The daydreaming archaeology intern
doesn’t really wish a giant stone ball
would chase him back to the leaking
trailer-laboratory, but a noir beauty to
kiss his bruises (just a few scrapes
on the knuckles from careless brush-
stroking, really) might be nice.
Brown felt fedora, tumbled scruff,
obligatory Nazi goons…

On second thought,
rusty antebellum nails in the Alabama clay
aren’t likely to melt your face in
a flashy show of divine wrath,
so maybe this gig ain’t so bad.

This poem was originally published under the pen name Gabriel Gadfly.
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