Pity is a four letter word
I’ll not use with you,
For truthfully, you curse yourself.
Understanding (I think)
Is a better word.
But I don’t understand, you say
How could I?
And rightly so I suppose)
Because I am younger even
Than your marriage was.
But truthfully, I think I do.
the sweet depths of lonesome
and bitter drink,
how bottles think quicker
and sing repeatedly
the only song you want to
a sharp tongued requiem
discreet in its first moments
the sly ,
severing important ties,
and prying eyes.
Half of my life
Succumbed to this very tune.
And it’s true,
Alcohol is clever
But it lies,
It tells you fantastic stories
About the seasons of life,
About the reasons for strife.
But when you question
The reasons for death,
Why you were left alone,
It never replies.
The Wagon Master
Grab the edge if you must.
Hold tight the reigns a mile at a time
And don’t deny it’s a rough and lonely ride
Across territory as barren as desire.
Trust in a power higher than yourself
To help those miles fly by,
Like the nights you don’t remember.
If you slip and fall off the wagon
Don’t fret, don’t regret
Or let failure sink its teeth in,
Just get back up on the wagon.
Grip the reigns tighter, and smile
At the thought of your destination,
That lovely town you’ve set sights on,
That turning point at the end of the road.
And you might chance to ride
Like a sailor flying a sobering wind.
The fog has cleared now.
It ambled off like a sleepy child
In search of a place to lay its head.
And I see the trail stretched before me
As though in a dream, something forgotten,
Laid out like the yellow brick road
And I know this is the way I must go.
Written by Jeffrey Spahr-Summers.
Ownership Copyright 1992 by Great Lakes Poetry Press.