Finest Sucker in the Bunch

I’ve never held a shotgun,
or been on a working ranch.
I’ve never been a pilot,
but I’ve definitely seen a crash.
I can’t ride a horse.
I can’t buy a Porsche.
I was lucky in love.
Until I fucked it up.

My name is held tight
against the lips of the bride
who looked behind her
at the man who was running
to find her, lost and lonely,
on a path populated
by sidewinders.

Well, I sing this song,
so the snakes will move along.
My voice trembles
assembling the
words I use to
recreate my muse from
the shambles of my rambling fate.

Thought summer would never end.
Till the snow came and I couldn’t pretend.
The leaves left the trees. Now I stand here
in my shorts, waiting to freeze.

Now I’m biting
on the particles
of the fossil
of the molecules
of my dwindling,
crumbling heart
— that I lost
in a rush
following the county bus
that contained her
down the highway
the remainder fell apart.

I’m no Willy Nelson. Not even a guitar picker,
but I know I’m the finest sucker in the bunch.


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