Like a sickness that gives you fever
and shakes, makes you cough, makes
your lungs hurt blowing smoke rings
into the sweet country air. Like a car
whose engine dies on the way to the
multi-plex the next town over where
there’s no bad seat for watching the
bad guys get shot full of holes. Like
the river when it floods and Main Street
fills up like a sewer and the water
destroys all my shit, all my memories.
Like a gun that doesn’t fire and just
goes “what” as in “what-the-fuck” and
won’t plug a hole in a home invader or
illegal alien or welfare terrorist or that guy
who looks like Jesus who I know, ‘cause
he ain’t no Jesus. Like a sky the color
of nightmares coming down at you,
bringing the earth to a halt, roaring at you
like a lion, your bones feeling colder
the closer it gets. Like when my shoes
won’t get me where I’m going when
I’m walking. Like there’s a black hole
in place of my feet and a blue mountain
standing tall in front of me, saying nothing,
doing nothing, because it’s a mountain.

Copyright 2019 Jose Padua

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