HOTSPUR Poem by Jack Grapes

A line that goes nowhere
starts in Spain where bats
through the low trees
make morning needles
in my hair but I'm relent
less about austerity something
you can cry forever and it fails
to absolve you like the unfamiliar
cross on that hill where travelers
like you having found what was
lost and lost what they'd found
dream the distant cries of yokels
looking for a handout right there
where the woman lifts her dress
on a dare and dusts off the park
bench she's been sleeping on
all night and nothing you say
to yourself or anyone can
replace the notion you
had of yourself growing taller
in that chevy bel air with
blue seat covers stopped
at the red light on Earhart
Boulevard at 2 o'clock in
the morning on your
way to see the cajun girl
who promised you
her body as ransom
for the prisoners
you denied the king