The abandoned house
smelled like a garbage dump.
There were holes in the floor
and pipes exposed.
The cheap wine
tasted like regret and shame.
Bozo was there,
sleeping in a heap
in the corner of the living room.
He looked like that clown
from the old cartoons,
wild red hair sticking out
at the sides of his head.
The floorboards creaked.
Any minute, I expected them to break,
landing me in the basement,
or hell,
or the abyss of degradation.
I hopped over one of the holes
and found my way through the dark,
to Bozo.
I shook his ***** army coat.
“Bozo, wake the hell up.
I got a bottle of wine.”
He said,
“Either I’m dreaming,
or it’s Christmas,
or you’re an angel.”
He sat up
and smiled,
a toothless grin.
We each lit a half-crushed cigarette
and touched the flame
to a small candle
made out of a beer can.
Bozo had a little portable radio.
He put it on low
to an old jazz channel.
Coltrane was burning
those amber notes
into our little shack
while we talked
about life,
death,
Van Gogh,
and what the hell we were gonna do
to blur the memories.
We snuffed out our cigarettes.
Bozo threw me
a ***** old blanket,
hard and crusty
from years with bums.
We finished the sweet, bitter wine
and drifted off to sleep,
dreaming of cattails,
summer ponds,
and better years.