outpaced,
outweighed,
and outgunned,
I scoff
at the odds
of three million
to one—cuz they
can't know
what I keep
all locked up
behind this face,
and they can't
hear the theme-
song I wrote
in a dream
and am singing
without moving
these lips
as I weave
through the throng
on a horse called
The Wind
toward the harbor
of home, where
I'll lie down
'til morning—then
rise, spit, and roll
up my sleeves
with a grin, flip-
off this town,
and then leave
for an encore
of the very
same suicide
mission: take it
on again.
