The Wrath Of Long-Forbidden Gods

A man — call him 
Steve or, you know,
any name at all —
pulls his car, his home now
for months,

into a concealed space behind
the abandoned
machine shop where
he once worked.

Gets out to piss
on the wall between
the empty dumpsters
that somehow were never removed
after the place closed.

Stands for a minute after that
under the still-cold spring moon.

In another minute
he will spread a sleeping bag out
in his backseat.
Will use a plastic bag full of clothes
as a pillow.

By now he’s got it all down to science,

but before he starts
he thinks for minute about
a phrase that’s been in his mind
for weeks now:

the wrath of long-forbidden gods.

Shakes it off, or tries to.

Steve — if that’s his name —
has better things, more practical things
to do right now and after all,
this is America and we have
plenty of new things to worry about
without invoking old ones.

He shivers. It’s normal to shiver,
he reminds himself. It’s dark
and cold for April. You don’t 
need to imagine disinherited entities
to feel the need to shiver,
and the monstrous wings he sees
skidding across the face
of the moon tonight

must just be clouds
transformed by
his hunger and loneliness;

after all, this is America. So

he shakes it off, 
or tries to.