The Mechanics Dining at Backstreet Grill

Yes, I guess I could measure my wealth
in the times when I haven’t been bored,
my body leaning as if I was confused
laundry on a windy day – bellows inside and out
my poor buffeted brain
but awake, rejoined.
If I had wealth, this would have to be it.
 
Daniel said we were flung high
but was interrupted, a burp abruptly
by an outsider and not so bright
more like the dim in a broom closet.
 
It made me feel better about my failures, I murmured oatily
to Alec and I chewed on a cigar
with my bourbon as though I was mighty.
I’m not complaining, but I’m not
although I wanted
before I was my mother’s,
a hand on my brow signifying greatness;
the emollient bestowing a secret mark
and ever after a cake without compare.
 
But we are sticks
tossed by the unmoved mover.
Non-returnables.
By flung high, he meant,
in all soberness, that we end
in interesting places, some twig of a branch
scratching at the river.