it wears cut-off jeans,
a twice-torn shirt,
and hiking boots

it’s callused like a woodcutter
and it’s as hard as the night is long

it’s a sawed-off shotgun world, friend
and you’re looking down the barrel

it doesn’t have any mercy,
it just keeps on turning,
and swooping around the sun,
and never does it stop
or pull a punch

when you fight your way up the stairs
every morning
and get on the treadmill
you start to wonder
if there’s anything to it
besides the fiction and the friction

sometimes you are lucky enough
to go too fast
or catch a new song
or do anything that
just for a moment
lets you forget the turning

when you are so blessed
thank the harmony
and the speed
and all the bottles of beer

there wasn’t much poetry in them
but at least they kept the shotgun
out of your face for a time