King Rat

The neon beckons you through it's doors, like greasy cheese

set in a loosely laid trap.

"My friends," you cry, as you stumble towards the bar.

The cracked black vinyl stares back with a familiar toothless smile.

It says, "Lay it on down boy, come on, you've seen today's box

scores on yesterday's news. Truth went out with the

Kennedys. Put it down

here pal….your throne, yours. King

Rat has returned."

It's a place to rest while all others are working.

It's a place to melt no matter how cold your heart is.

You can be.

Without plodding through daily strategies or begging your loved

ones for forgiveness for past or future failures.

You alone control the property, because the property is you.

You gotta deed that wear on your torn yellow shirt like

a badge of courage - gravy stains and odors earned, then

cherished, mineral rights still mined, at least for now.

When you look up, your scotch and water is nowhere, only the

vacant stares of royalty await you, each and every one is

landowner, but you alone are king.

 

You see, you know that somewhere there's a place where roadsters

can go after they've earned the right to be slow.

Ya know, thoroughbreds blessed then retired as guest.

But this is not that place.

No, we are nowhere near, but if you scoot on over, for the

price of a beer I'll tell you it is.

And if you like my story, if my passion rings true, then

you've bought it pal and it's a kingdom for you.

 

He lay there on the floor melting, with a gash through his brain.

In your hand the broken bottle is clutched tightly, cutting through

your fingers, blood dripping on his forehead.

You watch the puddle grow and then vanish between the cracks of

the dirty wood…

You know they will be here soon.

You wonder if they'll understand

There's only room for one king and you are that.

"How about one for the road, Joe? Thanks

you can keep the napkin."

1988