Where Do You Belong

The fog plumed through the gunshot holes in the train windows like
the ghosts of old outlaws looking for home.
They’ve been drifting in and out of
eternal taverns looking for fountains of whiskey,
beer flowing from angel’s teat.

Movements like dancing fists punching air,
tongues licking heaven’s windows.
No more laughing and/or crying
at St. Peter’s poker table.

The fog teeters,
sways as if in an
ocean of scotch and
naked women. Fish

caught in weeds without hooks
to pull them from purgatory.

Stuck, always
stuck.