The Undercut

Fingers feeble;
Little bunnies, helpless.
Raging little Irish men
swatting like flies
the gauntlet.
all dressed in maroon jumpsuits,
spinning on the dimes and hopping
fro, joyous.
My Hair stands on end;
once grizzled and in tight curls,
I become abstract, and dance, and sing,
and cry
at the stars
I'll never meet.
My brain seethes and minds wander, spooking
up the deep thoughts on death and the future:

Me, bane, and glory, sit astride
the flame meteorite as it
plummets, fearing no one standing
safely below us.
but as our ride nears the surface, I remind myself
how it feels; hundreds of
people standing around, looking
blankly up at the neon green
signs, soiling themselves as they
read the giant words which cast
the only light for a million
miles:

The Undercut.