The upper hand

what a man he was.
you wouldn't know it at first sight,
or the second,
but maybe the third—

in between his half-dozen
sandwiches a day
and his chain-smoking
(always gonna quit just as soon
as the cartons in his closet ran dry)
you begin to see a man...

always smiling the screw-loose grin
of a cleaned-up ex-junkie
who can't barely remember his own address,
obsolete with the childlike mental capacity
that two decades of hard drugs left him,
wandering idly from one warehouse bay to the next,
loving life and letting you know it.
(calling work fun, because if he's
not having fun, why bother?)

but I guess after twenty years
of heroin hits, acid stamps and angel dust
collecting prison time, tattoos and diseases
and then going straight sober
of his own accord
for twenty-two years,
he has a right to be happy

they treated him rough.
foreman hounding him
when he didn't complete the few duties
that were entrusted him
and grown men baiting him
like guffawing schoolyard boys.
but you can't blame them...
men can't read souls,
just histories

and they told me to watch out for him,
but in a place where you're treated
exactly as well as you know your job
he treated a know-nothing college kid
pretty damn fine

so I can rest easy,
because he had plenty of demons
but he fought them all daily
the last twenty-two years—
and now he's got a halo
and two big-ass wings
and a sword to fight them.
with a mad cackle,
that euphoric glint in his eyes
and a "c'mere you dirty bastards!"
Joe finally has the upper hand.


Rest in peace Joe - 2/28/11