Good Friday, 1995

Wondering what to write

for this year’s passion poem,

thought of nothing

then the clutch began to slip

on the uphill ascent to the garage

knowing they’d have to remove the

traney to free the clutch

and not under warranty

I took the streetcar to work,

the car jouncing in the tunnel below

Twin Peaks, wondered

if the driver was on drugs, his

foot jammed against a dead-man’s pedal,

we emerged at West Portal, no

angels greeting us with rolled back stone,

at work I turned on my computer and saw yesterday’s work

gone, an INIT glitch nailed me, I think,

buried under my work I wait

for daylight, still, it could

be worse, don’t want

to think about it, though.


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