6 AM, Hell’s Ditch, USA

6 AM.
You wake up not having to think
about the coming day.

On the drive to work the streets
will be identical
to yesterday’s streets.

At the woolen mill
you will spin yarn
right through overtime.

You will leave
for home
tired and itchy.

On the drive home the streets
will be identical
to yesterday’s streets.

Everything you can think of doing
after work will feel as stale
as the thought of the wool.

You roll out of bed
thinking about
the dream.

You keep having this dream
where you’ve shaved off your beard.
A woman’s voice asks why you’ve done it.

You reply,
“A man can’t sit around
just waiting to die.”

You start thinking,
“What if I did
shave off my beard?”

It’s been twenty years since the last time
you thought about that.
Maybe it’s time you thought about that.

Maybe before you die
you’ll choose to meet your Maker
with (once again) your baby face.

Let the outline
of what you’ve hidden
come up for air.

Let the breeze
lubricate your way
to somewhere beyond

6AM,
Hell’s Ditch,
USA.

When you live here
you never go anywhere.
Even in your head

you only get to places
that aren’t Hell’s Ditch
once in a while.

Once in a while, you get to a place
where there are still two hours
to last call,

and even though
you’re almost sober,
you’ve already hooked up.

The band is playing
“(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction”
and for once, it’s not about you.

Once in a while, you get to a place
that looks like an open road glimpsed
from inside a pool hall that was a key location

in the movie
you were meant to make.
The one where the taste on your lips

is Marilyn’s kiss.
You don’t push her away this time.
The President and his brother nod approvingly.

You’ve got “Niagara”
on your mind.
In your version, no one dies

except the scriptwriters
who dreamed up this stuff
to tease guys like you.

If this was
your movie,
you’d call in sick forever.

You’d pick up the razor.
Carve away all that mask of hair.
Gas up the car and go – never bother to pack.

What would you
take with you anyway
beyond a razor?

You’d be thinking,
it’s all for the best
now that my old face

is swirling down the drain.
After that, you’d almost
have to go. They’d never be able

to figure out
what to do with you here
if you were to change.

But then again,
it’s 6 AM
in Hell’s Ditch, USA.

You know that
even if you did shave it all off,
on the way out the door you’d hesitate

as if you had
forgotten something —
and then you would remember,

and you would grab
the rented DVD
on the way out

so that you could return it
to the Red Box
on the way to work, because

there’s no sense paying more
for a movie
you never got around to watching.