OP EN A LL N I G H T

Trying to find sleep
has kept me awake--funny
how these things work...
or don't.
I even tried to stop looking
thinking I'd outfox him; not
a chance.
I watched night after night
the furiously blinking
of colored neon
go off kilter & dance
the dance of St. Vitus.
And other times
I watched myself
and felt gut-punched
like seeing a Hopper painting.

I've believed misery & tragedy
will find you
no matter what you do.
Still, I've barricadded myself
in here for the past month
while that lustful virus
feasted on other hosts
less susceptible than I am.
I've got all the chronic conditions
that the little bugger could hope for.
Once inside, it would make short work of me.

You can learn
about yourself
at any age.
Recently, I'd boast
to all my doctors
& my few friends,
that I'd had a good life:
many scenes, many lovers,
many poems, high highs
& low lows--enough
to expect in this go round.
I was ready.
But now I feel the wisdom
of Auden in his, Musee Des Beaux Arts.
Old men cling passionately to life,
while unexpectedly the young go...
because I don't want to go
anywhere. I have more to read
& more to write. I want
another hot fudge sundae
and the smile of a woman
who sees something
I didn't think was showing.

And so I will watch
the little crack
underneath my door
or my windows
for any sign
of invasion.
I will not go easily;
I'll try to hide
behind the door
sneak up on it,
and knock that motherfucker
out.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

BOUNCED AROUND

You don't know
what you're getting
into: an icebox
or cauldron.
You don't know
how the cord
you've come from
tightens
once it's
cut.
How unfortunate
not to have skins
like the rhino
or the freedom
of a fish.
Instead,
we're at the mercy,
(for such
an ungodly time),
of lunatics
who've been mothered
by other lunatics.
They're drunk
or broke or
broken or
both; they scream
& curse
& fondle
their charges.
They abandon
or ignore
or shame
because
they can.
And those
are the lucky ones.
They haven't been
bounced against walls,
or tied to their beds
for days or weeks.
They haven't been
pissed on
or touched
or fondled
or fucked.
But none
are really
lucky.
Early on
they believe
the truth
of the lie:
their fault
for the fights
or the coldness
or the ravings
of drunks; their fault
the world tilts
& slides
& slips
underneath
them.

I never really wanted kids;
I always knew
I was too fucked-up
in all the ways
that matter
to them; consistency
for one. I'm no hero.
Today I saw a few
newly minted diabetics:
nine and fourteen.
No family,
but too much family:
drunk and addled
and miffed that a
disease demanded more attention
than they did.
The kids were quiet,
but inside, their bodies
churned: their eyes
sensitive, ears receptive
to every and any
jungle sound. They will
have to develop
a better nose
for deceit
& truth
if they are to survive. And that
could take
a lifetime.

Coming home
the train
was empty
considering
the hour; perhaps
the rain and wind
kept the animals
in their cages.
I sat alone
in a corner
and let the underground
rock me. It felt good.
I'd been through
what those kids
were going through
now: the diabetes,
the blame,
the shame,
the wanting to fix
the unfixable. They will,
I knew, waste
a lot of time.
I didn't want
to get off the train
and passed my stop.
I'd eat out tonight.
And then write,
what turned out,
to be this poem.
Not very good,
I admit,
but I really
don't give
a fuck.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015