serious freedom

Blew into town like a reputable vagrant,

with a pack of smokes and a

full flask of apple jack and a

quarter of a chip still left

on my shoulder.

I checked my watch.

It had stopped.

Checked the sun.

It was a few minutes fast.

Ducked into a movie theater.

A film by Jolly Johns was showing,

starring somebody named Roxie Fuller.

She was chronically dissatisfied

with something,

something intangible,

inscrutable.

Kept chain smoking and

picking up guys at a bar

in a Holiday Inn.

Wore lots of lip gloss and

purple eye shadow and high heels

that made her wobble like a Weeble.

I walked out an eighth of the way

through the movie,

(had nobody to root for),

was accosted by a woman whose face

was scarred by acne.

She bummed a cigarette from me,

asked me if I could ever vote for

somebody who was pro-life.

Told her, I don’t vote.

She said why not.

Told her, don’t complain

so I don’t vote.

She said, well at least you’re consistent.

Told her, that I am, sister,

that I am,

excused myself,

walked east,

or was it west?

Definitely wasn’t north or south.

Could’ve been northeast or southeast.

Decided it really didn’t matter

because I was a reputable vagrant

with a quarter of a chip still left

on my shoulder,

goodly in need of a crucial moment and

black coffee,

secretly yearning

for precise reasoning and

a Pop tart,

but settling for

the middle ground and

something 3 weeks past

its expiration date.