Every week, the AWM is excited to bring you stories written by our visitors in our Story of the Day exhibit, which features typewriters that visitors can interact with directly, or our newest temporary exhibit, My America: Immigrant and Refugee Writers Today. Check back weekly for new stories, and visit the Museum to try out our typewriters, see the exhibit, and possibly be featured here!
On My Own, a poem
On my own. Against the tempest.
with the roar of I55
and the smoke of Newports.
HIS GRACE ON THEE
UNTIL the poll snaps and you fly away.
The old man next door
comes back home from the market
like usual on a Friday Night.
He’s got no job. no family.
Save a kennel of dobermans.
There’s a puddle of rainwater at his feet,
and he’s haulin’ a bag of chow to feed these beasts.
He hauls his hoard through the wind and cold water
while Sultan the cat mews
and Ayatollah licks his nuts.
Then along comes
Poor Old John Hardy
with a God Damn Glack in his jeans,
and he shouts,
“Gimme your God Damn Wallet!”
The old man says:
“Boy I ain’t got shit for cash!”
So poor old John Hardy puts a slug of lead
in the old man’s guts and goes for his loot.
All he finds are bags of doberman chow,
Last weeks Chicago Sun Times,
A Hank Williams CD
And a check book with a balance
He turns to me and shouts,
“I just wanted his God Damn Wallet!”
then he hits the old West Virginia Trail.
Finally, some peace and quiet again.
I’m on my own, against the tempest.
With the roar of I55. and the smoke of Newports.
All day long the songs playin in my head
at work, in bed, they repeat
and on those rare days when I find time
to pull them out and into the computer
I listen with a smile, then say
wow, that’s utter garbage
Poem from S.C.
the wind and the water are holding silent