It Could Be Cancer

I drove from the parking lot of Saint Augustine’s,
cigarette lit and a weird lump
where my throat meets my chin.

Paperwork to my right,
a joint waiting for me at home.

The Who acts as a far away navigator,
providing measured coordinates and

the instinct to roam.

Some would clean the chamber,
wait for a loud surprise, but

what happens in one’s mind
has skipped mine.

I stop in at Pepe’s Liquor for a case of Old Style.

Half-way home now,
I think about the concrete patio.
An old wooden rocker will swish the beer
from front to back like

a racist bus driver dictating people’s seats.

The place where this feeling will hide
behind cold buzz, the thought

that it can’t be time.