Under the battered cap
And more battered mustache.
Slumped against the crooked railing.
Hands wedged in pockets.
A woman with a spear
A bottle, a fish’s tail
A smile that said
She’d seen things
You couldn’t dream of
On a sign creaking above.
Somewhere he had read,
Enemies are like furniture,
Better chosen for oneself than inherited.
Life terrifies,
No rule books.
None know
What we’re doing here.
To stare reality
In the face,
To not utterly
Lose your shit,
To believe
You have control over it.
A creak in the night,
A smile,
more grimace
than smile.
Shame is good.
Shame is right.
Shame works.
Shame the gateway emotion
To self-criticism,
To realization,
To an apology, outrage
To meaningful action.
We remember those
Who decide
How our maps
Should be drawn.
Noone remembers
Who built the roads.
All that happens matters
Only from what you can learn from it.