Grease
Wagon
Paper cups,
Hot chips and sauce;
Sticky fingers dip in for just one more...

Like a wave,
You crash over me,
Open my eyes with,
The calm of the sea.

Like a book,
Your pages read clear,
Sentences true,
Chapters sincere.

Like a wagon,
You carry the weight,
Of love, hold it up,
As your wheels rotate.

Like a compass,
I use you to guide,
My direction
I let you decide.

I'm trying so hard to stay sober,
Taking it one day at a time,
But I'm barely hanging on,
Struggling on this uphill climb.

I'm on the wagon for good now,
But isn't that what I always say?
It seems like no matter what I do,
That is the one place I never stay.

Too soon, I'll fall off onto my ***,
And flush all my progress down the drain,
The landing hurts, but not for long;
The drugs are there to numb the pain.

Maybe this time I'll do better,
Tomorrow will be day twenty-three,
Although it feels so good to get high,
Sober is what I'm trying to be.

I’d jump at the chance to ride shotgun
on Henry’s medicine wagon
rolling from city to village
hawking 'Stickin’ Salve' and 'Oil of Gladness'.

We’d ride into Elmira’s County Fair
and set up over by the lake.
I’d fix old Diamond a pail of oats
and draw her a bucket of water.
while great, great grandpa
squeezed on his Union coat
and arranged his potions on the shelves.

Henry’s voice would boom
across the water like a megaphone
and people would gather close -
lured in by the old codger's
hypnotic banter of miracle cures -
and perilous Civil War battles.
  
He’d swear on his mother’s lumbago
that 'Stickin’ Salve' works just as fine
as the lead and powder
he’d fired at Cedar Mountain.

The folks would shake with mirth
whenever he bellowed,
“I’m Henry Howard from Bunker Hill -
Never worked and never will."
Women would tug their husband's sleeves
and they’d bring me pennies and dimes.

After dusk we’d tally the coins
and latch down the wagon for the night
then sleep side by side on the grass
beneath the New England stars.

At sunrise I'd wipe his brow -
to ease him gently back
from the thunder of enemy shells
still firing in his restless sleep.

We'd cook up some bacon and biscuits,
hitch Diamond up to the wagon
then head south through the rolling hills
along the Tioga valley.
We’d breathe in the fresh country air
and tip our caps to the farmers.

If Henry would come to tap my shoulder
some promising morning in spring
and whisper "the wagon's hitched outside,"
I’d go in a Tioga minute.

*December,  2006