LONGING AT THE FUCK HOUSE

Joshua Chris Bouchard

Not that I was invited.

The aloof and boring heroes 

of my youth burst into flame. 

In the corners are the wigs 

bought at tired thrift shops, 

the balcony hangs the faux 

fur coats of the tasteless rich.

Not that it matters. One day, 

in the puny apologies of 

our bad habits, we’ll finally 

set things right. For now, 

there is no future: sit up 

straight, drink your liquor, 

shit or get off the pot, soldier.

Getting older never gets easy. 

But at least now I can go down 

swinging. Silently and with 

a skillful tact that scares 

even me.