by Kip Conlon

Where the express becomes the local.
Where the wafer turns to Christ.
Where metaphor is meaningless.
At least it is tonight.
On the median strip between Eden’s lip and Sodom’s construction site
we lay our weary heads in the sand,
the twitchy lion and frightened lamb
and wait for visits and visions
from ambivalent apparitions
who don’t know what to do with our indecision.

Where time stands still but hemlines change
and people withdraw whom you’ve just met
it’s like the world really is but a stage
and death is a joke you finally get.
Curled up in a bathtub, thinking of your last love:
the initial liftoff, the final descent.
A shitty jukebox of memories,
the same pretty girl on every sleeve
and you wish, you wish she would come back
so you could leave.

And though you’re lost, the road unfolds
like you’re still in the right direction.
You guess you’re as welcome here
As your original intention.
And so you’re wrong, and were all along,
you’re left with the same impression.
You have to say your life is okay
in a shrugging, sort of compromised way
and drifting, debating, should you pull a one-eighty,
it’s really nothing you’re contemplating.