In the spring there is hardly time
for our double lives, which can
comfortably take up the winter.
Now, there is too much ice cream
and too many easygoing girls in dresses
to leave room for death in my day,
which statistics say will happen
more frequently now anyway.
Maybe I'll go outside and buy a Coke
but just in case
I'll still have my guns and grieving mothers.
If I drink beer on a patio at twilight
I know there is a man somewhere who has
a bullet for every line in this poem.
No? The sunlight just seems brittle
to those of us with fantasies of disaster,
and even on rainy days
I am always dwelling over some
lost life or another, names swallowed
by drugs or love or government service.
Everything is tolerable but silence, because
those of us chasing lives of self-destruction
are appetized by madness, I guess because it
makes us still inside. And it's so quiet now.
Let's grab a Coke and talk about it.