poem

 The BossI was eleven listening toBorn in the USABlasting from cheap boom box speakers Sprawled out on the skin thin carpetOf my tiny bedroom in Massillon.Even then I knew it wasn ’t an anthem.I ’d read the lyrics, all the songs,Printed on the fold outCassette cover like it was scriptureI was born to run I had a hungry heartI was going to get out of that two-bitDead man ’s town and go racing in the streetsFar away from this hand me down precarityThat tempts most into a docile mediocrityAnd find a reason to believe.Driven by nothing but a desperate hopeAnd an inchoate rage manifesting as tenacity All I had to do was not give up, not stopNo matter how much disappointmentDripped down from the dark cloudsOf a two faced modern American life This was the music that told the truthAbout the quiet middle aged acceptanceOf finding yourself alone in the spaceSomewhere between everything you Ever wanted and all you have lostOr left behind It ’s the price you gotta payIt ' s the faces looking through youIt ’s the ghosts in the eyesHaunting my son someday whenEveryone he loves is sent away.Eleven himself now, he sprawlsAcross a much softer carpetIn a much bigger homeOccupying himself unthinkinglyWith all the things I erringly thoughtMade the least bit of difference.Soon enough it will be up to himTo stop waiting for that momentThat won ' t ever come untilHe finds his own way to liveWith the self-same sadnessAnd reckon with the rollicking madnessThat ...

Source: Buckeye Surgeon - April 6, 2023 Category: Surgery Authors: Jeffrey Parks MD FACS Source Type: blogs