But, Where Can It Score?

But, where can it score?

On the road by the bridge where the bats live, the pleading creature sways.

It’s evening and a dying sun burns the day in a fit of flames.

Men stop in pity and plead: Have you anywhere to go?

And the creature nods, beard dripping spit and sweat; its eyes staring absent like a shadow.

It wanders through garbage bins and windshields,

Its face leather with teeth like corn.

Abate its security for remorse; the storm only settles when it scores.

But, where can it score?

Through the angelic harp of people’s hearts, where it’ll stand and strum, echoing softly into the dry air.

It breathes in deep but chokes and coughs. Always choking, it continues moving.

And the Man stops to ask: Where are you going?

And it doesn’t answer but He insists: You look cold and scared like a shaking dog. Do you need a home?

I am a man and You are not my home,

The Man won't help it score, and so he moves on.

It moves like rotten meat secreting from a grinder.

It talks in silence and groans like a closed door containing a child and its grabby uncle.

The devil turns to it, waving it closer and closer.

It follows and offers him crinkled dollars

He says: We’ll meet again.

And it answers: This is the last time.

And they laugh at hopes and lies.

The harp sounds sweet like quivering trees,

the moon sits heavy on the horizon,

and it stings to feel good.

It stings like death to feel so good.