In Good Company

The young, old fool

shadowboxing the rain

says he's lost 

everything he never had.

He stole a book

full of aristocrat's words

and fed his bad seed

to the birds.

When in good company

his holy bucket 

can't hold an ear.

Idiot tongue untied

and true.

He sings off chroma key

and blue.

The rest come in 

the wrong places.

What else can he do?

An organ grinder's

monkey  

fell off 

the midway wagon. 

Now he's outside 

the dining room window

playing the fool

for cigarette butts

and shots

of embalming fluid.

He shakes his head

and claims it's all a mistake.

Says he can reason

and wear a tie

but his card house

is held together

with wishes 

and scotch tape.

When the summer ends

and the organ 

goes to storage

he sleeps in a doorway

and eats 

in the alley

studying 

cat philosophy.

The billboards shout;

everybody's going on vacation,

everybody's having them,

everyone's nobility,

in the movie version of

the surprised fighter's 

autobiography.

He could never accept

that it took 

10 seconds

to make 

a decision.  

He lost his title.

He lost his girl.

He left this town.

Now he paints

crushed beer cans

on the side of

broken bottles

in the desert.

Every night,

he tells the dial-tone

on his unpaid phone

about the stars in the sky

and shame 

and lies.