Credit Check

In looking at my credit, what does it do for me?

Does it fill a hole, does it make me feel happy, sad, angry?

This credit you talk of? What do you mean?

Why can’t you make more sense?

And I continue to stare.

My sane part says you are doing so well, just look at your credit.

It validates you financially.

My mad part says spend the shit out of your cards.

And the middle part just hums a tune.

I’ll put on some Gram Parsons, Maybe that will solve it.

Now I hear the train a comin, and I don’t know what to do.

Am I just putting in lyrics from the song I hear. Is that cool?

I dunno. I’m not even sure this is a poem. It might be words that fell out of my head and onto this page to impress you, or depress you or to fill you with an angry pit of hatred for the writer who tries to be post-modern or clever with his words. What arrogance you scream, what turge, why am I reading this? Who is this man?

And I step back from the screen. Reread and scream.

That’s all it took. To yearn for your embrace.