1986
was a year of rust -
and prayer.
I worked
two jobs,
three jobs,
six days,
seven if the Lord
looked the other way.
Didn’t rest,
didn’t dream,
just kept on
like a broke-down Buick
with a cough in its soul.
That old '63 LeSabre -
Blue as my mood,
fading like hope -
her grandma gave it,
God bless her -
and we rode it
on fumes,
on faith,
on three dollars of gas
at a time.
Three bucks.
You hear me?
That’s a couple gallons and some change,
back when gas still showed mercy.
We rolled slow,
so the needle stayed up,
and the money didn’t run out
before the month did.
At night -
when our baby boy
looked at us like he didn’t know
we were poor -
we scraped quarters from couch cushions
and dreams,
walked hand-in-hand
to the corner store
like it was Disneyland.
Two rounds of Galaga
was all we could afford -
click-click of buttons
like a heartbeat
on life support.
And he laughed.
Lord, he laughed.
Didn’t know the world
was made of rent overdue,
shoes too tight,
and checks that bounced
like lies.
I held his hand.
And hers.
And the world
felt too heavy
for three people to carry.
Then came July -
or maybe it was June -
time didn’t make sense,
just kept tickin’
like a slow leak
in the ceiling.
She said:
“We’re pregnant again.”
And I swear,
the room spun sideways -
the walls shouted
with mouths I couldn’t see -
and every window
closed.
No money,
no insurance,
no nothing
but the hope a man fakes
when he don’t wanna cry.
So I stood at the crossroads -
dignity in one hand,
fear in the other -
and I traded both
for a uniform
and a bus ticket.
Greyhound dreams,
pullin' out at midnight,
no kiss at the station
'cause if she cried,
I woulda stayed.
Ft. Hood.
Ft. Knox.
Ft. Nowhere.
They shaved my head
and said I was somebody new.
But I still felt like
that broke man
in a Buick,
still rollin' slow
on three-dollar prayers.
They gave me
a cot,
a gun,
and a paycheck
that didn’t bounce.
They gave me
insurance,
so my child
could be born
without debt
and delivered in light.
But they didn’t take
the ache.
Or the shame.
Or the guilt of leaving
a wife and a boy
for a war I hadn’t started -
a war called life.
I dreamed
of gas stations,
of sticky joystick handles,
of laughter echoing
between chip bags and candy aisles.
I dreamed
of quarters
like they were silver halos.
I dreamed
of making it home
before the baby could say
"Da-da"
to a man
on the TV screen.
1986 -
we survived it.
But Lord,
it was cruel.
A year made of hunger,
of love stretched thin,
of nights spent counting
everything we didn’t have -
and still
finding a way
to live.
GBS
1994
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