Distance
I was walking in a summer rain
I found a ticket for a bus trip far away
But the driving rain made the ink run, and washed it as a black stain
I took it to the bus driver, my last chance to escape far away
He laughed and said it was no good
I pleaded and asked what hope there was under broken clouds
The bus driver closed the door and turned round in a diesel sky
Two passengers looked at me: one fat, the other thin
Neither cared, I could feel a sinking distance from their driving eyes

My House, The Day A Brick Fell Down
My house grew up on a dusty street. On summer nights men and women would walk by. Arm in arm they'd sway as lovers. I was young, too young to know what this love was. Sometimes I'd open a window and lean my elbows on the sill and rest my chin in my small hands. From the house I'd get a promise late at night not to say what I was doing. Watching under the moon when my parents thought I was asleep and dreaming. Me and the house were childhood friends. There was a boy across the street we would often see. A young man, really. I wanted to be like him when I was older, because he was free and had a girl who was pleasing to my eyes. Then one day he wore an army uniform, gleaming with polished shoes. My parents said he signed up to fight far away in some Asian war. I was sad to hear this, I thought the house was too. Then they said he died in that far away place. That night I opened a window and rested my chin in my small hands. I cried a tear. The next day my father found a brick, and said it must have fallen down during the night.

Someday
I took what I liked best, and put it into a white cloth bag. I don't know what I'll do with the rest. But I took what I liked most, and drew tight the drawstring. With the bag slung loosely along my shoulder I walked and walked. Then I wrote a poem. I don't know what I'll do with the rest. But someday I'll write a poem about a man with a drawstring held tightly to his chest.

Brain
I was crazy once. Barefooted inside my brain. Mad at all the madness inside of me. Angry at sin. Angry at the coursing, bubbling...boiling blood beneath my skin. I was crazy once. But I don't walk barefooted. Not inside my brain. My blood doesn't boil. It just simmers inside this sin.

Name
I walked into the One Lucky and sat at the bar. I wasn't sure if 'Beer Mugs' Moran would recall my name or remember my face. He was busy serving drinks. I assumed he couldn't see me out of the corner of his eye. He hadn't changed much as far as I could tell. Although, he did seem older and his shoulder looked as if it caused more pain. He hobbled some on his right leg. I wondered if he would think I too was getting older while pretty much looking the same. That is if he remembered me at all.

'Beer Mugs' looked at me for a second, and brought a drink. He put down a ginger ale, and said: 'You're Tortelli. What brought you back?"

I didn't know what to say, so I asked if Manny was around. Before he could answer, a fight started. He threw two guys out. It took a couple of tries to get them through the door. He didn't talk to me for the rest of the night. I just sat and drank slowly, and thought no one knew my name.

Years
Often times I prayed to a God I don't know. That was years ago. Now, I pray no more. I carried a poem in my vest pocket. I carried one in a wallet, too. It said nothing without rhyme, as a prayer does without a verse. Like a God I don't know, this happened years ago.

Veins
I protected him. I wrapped his fists in tape and put boxing gloves over his hands. Then I tied them up tightly and secure. The look in his eyes told we were brothers. He went down in the third round. For years I trained him. Got him fights. Now he was old. He went down in the third round. He got up, slowly. First on one knee. Then he grabbed my arm and I lifted him steady. He was my brother. Now he's dead. They called from the coast. They said another punch drunk fighter went down without life in his veins. It'd been years since the third round. But only days since life left his veins.