O Lord, whatever
you call yourself these days,
grant me street smarts &
wisdom never to complain
about how bad it is
out here. Politics,
desire, money, love,
unemployment—
help me see the pros
rather than the cons.
Let me walk
from a car wreck
smiling, singing
a joyful Lou Reed song
while firetrucks &
ambulances
add shrill harmonies
from the road.
However awful it gets
out here, remind me I am
out here, a warden
to my own catastrophes,
broken sewer pipes,
gas leaks, lost keys;
guard on duty
to oversee my sad affairs;
chaplain to my private
muttering gospel
of blessed are the better
here than there.
whose last name is the same
as the city where he did his time.
He knew her from before, & every letter
he wrote from there reminded him of her.
Now she reminds him of that place
as if her eyes are cameras overhead,
lips the fists of other inmates,
breath the radio static before dawn.
Love should not resemble prison
or romance come with chains.
He wonders if, to be free,
he would have to change her name,
if doing so would be freedom at all, &
if freedom is really what he wants.
Years lost to drugs & prisons,
years wasted in loneliness
of a marriage lacking movement
like a classic car
on cinderblocks in the yard,
years spent chasing the dragon
when I wanted
to chase off anxieties
I couldn’t understand
that left me trapped & jittering
like a cricket in a shoebox.
I’ve wasted time, &
now what’s left? A few years
of hurtful memories?
A decade or two of looking up
without seeing comets when they pass?
I’m being kept alive by AI
trained on spite.
It knows my worries & knows my grief.
It mocks me for my inadequacies.
I’ve shed minutes like dead skin
I’ve been a passenger inside\
since the beginning.
When I go, it will be in my sleep
although my eyes are open
like a convict wary
of his cutthroat cellmates in the dark.
Ace Boggess is author of six books of poetry, most recently Escape Envy. His writing has appeared in Indiana Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Notre Dame Review, Hanging Loose, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes, watches Criterion films, and tries to stay out of trouble. His forthcoming books include poetry collections, My Pandemic / Gratitude List from Mōtus Audāx Press and Tell Us How to Live from Fernwood Press, and his first short-story collection, Always One Mistake, from Running Wild Press.
Images from La Roue, directed by Abel Gance, 1923. The actress is Ivy Close, once declared the most beautiful woman in Britain.
