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a poem by Jocko Benoit


Sorry about the mess -- I guess there's
No room for your feet. What a stormy night
To be hitching. Your hair is full of raindrops.
Bad idea -- any serial killer could pick you up.
I saw a TV show saying these guys
Aren't mean -- they just don't feel
Other people are real. Think they're the center
Of the universe. You can give them all
The fancy words you want -- I know evil when
I see it. If you want to fix your face just use
The rear view. Now you seem like
A good person, but you can't trust too many.
Hell, friends have hurt me in places
A psychopath wouldn't know to look.
You learn to trust your own judgment.
You know, the rain must've stopped.
Windshield's already dirty. That makes it
Hard going. I drive the car a lot -- it's the
Only place I feel at peace, where I've got
Control of things again. In the end,
We're all out here alone. You know?
Damn -- no matter how much I turn up
The heat it's freezing in here. Do you
Have your window down? I like those
Sparkles in your hair -- kind of a broken halo.
Just come from a big party? That explains
Those sirens I heard back there.
Teenagers just can't control themselves.
I love parties, but there's not many
To go to now with everyone married,
Raising brats. I'll bet your folks don't get
Out much, do they? Think about that --
Kids never give parents consideration
Or respect. Or maybe you're the quiet type --
Moody one, I'll bet. Thinks the whole world
Is against you. Oh, now I see where
The draft is from: that huge hole
In the windshield when you came through it.
What do you expect, jumping in front
Of someone like that? Here, have a little
Something to warm you up. Look, it's pretty,
The lights on the bottle and in your hair
Flashing red and blue and clear
Red and blue and clear.

© by Jocko Benoit
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #23 ~ Sept 2012    return to top