The American Way

The American Way

I’m fine, thank you.

I’m taking off work for  few days………….

Just finished my probationary period.

Yeah..

Six month..100% attendance.

Yeah.. I work at a nursing home

They have this thing..

You need to work

Six months without missing.

It was rough ..but I did it.

Think I’ll take a few days sick leave.

Get back to my normal groove.

I deserve it…

.

h.      morgan   04/19/08/

They Keep My Beer

They keep my beer

on the bottom shelf

of the cooler.

It’s down there

because it’s

the cheapest shit

money can buy.

They also place

single bottled beer

along the bottom….

right in front

of the 12-packs.

I am forced to move

all the single beers to get to the

fucking beer I want.

“Why do you do this?”..

I asked the Chinese clerk.

“I struggle every day just to get my

beer.”

“Things more appreciated

when one works for them.”

he replied.

“Is it not so?”

I had to smile…

h. morgan 9/25/94

I woke up this morning

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There He Goes

There He Goes

There he goes

again…

The little sawed-off bastard.

I snap on the lamp…

reach for my watch..

and check the time.

3:40 AM…

and that hairy

little son-of-a-bitch

is yapping again.

I sit up..

light a cigarette…

think about calling

the neighbor.

Think better

of it…

Snap off the lamp.

And just sit there…

In the dark.

The glow of my

Cigarette

Reflecting back at me

From the window pane.

The dog yaps on.

Oh..Well.

h. morgan 7/10/93

The poems are out there

The poems are out there. . .

Some simply peering

through the window

at me.

Sometimes they hide among the

bushes where small children play.

Often in the dark clouds

where lightening

drives the wind.

Some hide in shadowed doorways

up and down the street. . .

or inside the deli

across the way.

Sometimes I have to search

them out. . .

capture one,

and drag him screaming home.

But mostly I find

that there are enough poems hidden

inside my bottle of Scotch.

I have but

to fill my glass. . .

and drink them in.

h. morgan 7/6/93

I know where

I know where

the poems are hiding.

They’re inside that

bottle of Scotch…

about half way down.

They’re good poems

too..

not those low life bastards

that tuck themselves away

inside cans of beer.

Nor those sensitive

ones,

found half way down

a bottle of wine.

But good, down to earth

hard-core poems,

that scream the truth

and challenge

you to fight.

I’m just the man

to go after

those fuckers

you know.

I’ll drag them

screaming from

that bottle

and nail them down

for all to see.

h. morgan 7/7/93