Stan's Place

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You waved before stepping onto the Broadway Limited

Denver held something for you I couldn’t.

Running down my face were all the years we spent

dancing around our ninth inning, game’s over.

Head down I bent into January and all the frigid

nights we spent together hiding from our truth.


Like claws on a chalkboard

bones of our past scrape pavement sore

mistakes, misjudgment, misreading

those dark clouds of regret whistling

whippoorwill sadness.

Pools of regret stir the witches’ kettle

time never stopped for Macbeth

spots, those damn spots.


We have dropped like so many rocks into this cavern.

Systematically like Lemmings to our deaths

heralded by no particular god

we hold tight to loosely planted trees

only to have their roots of morality dislodged.

What we thought would hold us upright as a billion lights

gives way to the frailties that have all along described us as one.

We are the many different shaded realities shoved aside

for the taxman, the gods of smoke, and kings of a street

aptly named “Wall.”