photo: ralph murreby Albert DeGenova
Kerouac, you have a way with “sad” –
sad cracked hands of all-night diners,
sad gravel under shapeless shoes,
sad waning moon of November roads.
Sentimental sadness, familiar
sadness, old friend
sad Jack, tell me if
sad tastes like black dust to you
if it smells like burning leaves,
tell me it is more than easy metaphor
‘cuz I can taste it on my breakfast toast.
Such a small word for a poet
so much smaller than love
the distillate of love –
grand love that inspires
yet lives and dies
in three breaths –
sad is old as coal
and deep in veins
reaching to our core, old friend,
the sad eternal core.
Drink that last shot down, buddy,
it’s a long cold walk to the diner.
~ previously published in Postcards to Jack (Naked Mannekin)
