His Slim Warm Hand

Near the intersection
of “doing not at all well”
and “better off than most;”

leaning into that crossroads,
waiting for company.
Of course it’s well known

who’s coming. Of course;
it’s dark of the moon.
And — don’t care. So tired,

can’t imagine
how it could be
otherwise

with this head like a post
of iron, solid dead inside
and bound to draw lightning;

pour that fire
on, it’s flame bath time;
time to get some

of that sweet burn.
Hear that engine, blown,
bored, coming closer?

That’s the Flamethrower
himself. He is getting
out of the car now.

It’s getting ugly now.
Not doing well at all and
only doing better than most

because most
already have been here
and done that;

can’t imagine how it is possible
that here I stand, ready to shake
his slim warm hand.