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Poem

The book was dull. 
I took it with me for a walk.
Guys at "The Station" 
thought I was being a jerk.
All I said was it’s hard to read in the dark. 
Should have gone to "The Edge" 
or "The Snit," any of the sad bars around. 
I wasn't picky.
I almost got my ass kicked.
People are touchy about their looks 
Especially around a guy with a book. 

But his look 
wasn't dull. Or so I thought. I want to paint you, man,
the young stud said, 
dragging his hand in the dust. 
You're a painter? 
I had a paint set as a kid 
but no friends to play with.
Left it in the closet 
where mother threw stuff 
I’d stopped using ‘til I became skilled:
Golf clubs, a fiddle, a mitt, and so on. 
I never found my little brush. 

Everything was fine, until my parents said 
I should leave. She’d help me pack my bags 
as long as I didn’t disturb my father. He 
was too busy shouting 
until we were old enough to know why. 
He grew a beard, wore rings on every finger, 
and ate napkins dipped in vinegar.
 
When I took off, 
they sounded like I’d committed treason, 
but I know they knew the reason. 
I miss them every time the sun goes down 
and I play pinball in my head.
Book and I’d just as well be left alone as I told them at “The Station.”
We lean on each other when I walk home. 
Aren’t books funny?

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