“Gaz’s Seat—Get Out”

Too dim-witted so it be called toxic, it falling
outside analytic precaution and finger-point paper responsibility slid aside
from town to money
to political to economic to races of races to bottoms up, because we can’t
be numbed quick enough, us silly boys, enemies at home
making corned beef hash without anything green like it isn’t a joke being
poked at all the time by new low peers and girls trying beer—
our hearts—as if their mouths could work that way over
the track they posed for their onward journey to test
their horse’s shoes. But Gaz in the Horseshoe? He kicks out, too,
just to get a reaction that’s framed within something
it has never been before, because he was them, too, only he got sick
of putting on virtue without feeling anything beneath him
from his saddle. And so he got rich, left the city,
and brought us all around without saying a word, no referencing required for the
mind you’ve framed above the bar.