Trenz Pruca

Under the Battered Cap

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.