MIDDLE-AGED MAN, SMOKING

its way too late for a guy your age to be out
and the only store for miles about
has closed and you had your last cigarette
an hour ago hanging around the ashtrays at
the bus station with nowhere to go in your life

and your girl friend resents you and your wife
remembers what you used to be and your children
are cruising planet Reebok and your foreman
is a prick and they raised Black Jack a dime
a shot and you got warts, and a bunion,
and two golf ball sized cysts on your ass

and somewhere you heard since the last
you knew they've found six or eight planets,
a couple of whole solar systems, a secret,
previously unknown life form that lives on
methane, good intentions and nicotine,

"This friggin country," you find yourself saying
 lately, or "When I was your age," betraying
more than you want or use to, and too much
 whiskey makes you want to talk too much
which is one good reason you drink it,
 you got no time anymore for lawn care or irony

or auto repair, or power walking, or even dignity
but there's a poofy haired blond at the curb
parked in a rusty Celebrity playing Herb
Alpert on her 8 track and a half a pack of Old Golds
shimmering on the dashboard and you know

an after hours place about a mile or two away
out by the airport down on County Highway
Q where you might get a little credit
 and the bouncer, the big one, is a sweetheart
you think his name's Ray, or maybe Raoul,
works every weekend, smokes Luckies too.

Bruce Taylor

If you've any comments on his poems, Bruce Taylor would be pleased to hear from you.