Post-Mortem Boredom Of A Spitting Constable Poem by Zac Wittstruck

Whatever may result from the ever-so-average state
of post-mortem boredom? Will he be
allowed to guzzle
from the sacred ill-

wishing well?
Only time may know
and choose to say what he wishes
for others to hear but not listen. The

clinking of glasses
echoes and collapses
the feigning wall of truth, but that
may or may

not be the answer.
It is impossible for the rain to dance
in perfect unison with itself, especially if
the drive down

has blurred the passing vision of
hitchhikers and sidewalkers
who happen to know what it is to be in the right place
at the wrong time. And if

it so happens
that I do know now
what my grandfather knew
in his future

I would not be mistaken
and have taken the turnpike
to western nowhere. But that is

exactly how
more or less

he came to be known as
a spitting constable.