just one more thing

one thing you just have to somehow learn
one thing you just got to want to sometime know
depressed carpets suave wood walls bad music
on the intercom one last thing to remember you said
one last thing to die for
just that one thing and nothing much to go afterwards
to get us both past the confusion and the smoke
tonight language on the doorstep with a broken face
language without its friend
just drifted down from the mountains
just needed some dinner some drinking some amiable
understood piece of historical wind
language on the laundry
language on the hit list
waiting for a hearing waiting for a scene
hoping to check into it hoping you’d clean the dream up
put all the furniture of the mind back where it
somehow seemed to belong
one thing only one thing all night long
the laundry machines go into their song
police cars existed before comedy
unless in some strange angry way they created
the comedy
just one last item on the list then
just one more newly discovered world
see you in the outhouse see you in the forest see you in the
cell
one thing only need apply
the one thing that will get us through the night
the one thing that will land us secure on the other side
of the border
the sun crossed the border around 4:15
wearing a pair of blue cracked sunglasses
wearing a pair of nylons
it wanted to rendezvous with our resuscitation
it wanted to call our dance card home
the sun nodded across the border of us all
our home is in the fire our fire is in the bone
God is a Cajun didn’t you understand?
just one last thing you said and never said another thing
all year long
just one last thing will do
the thin days they come they go they talk about it all
the thin men and women stand next to the exit sign
waiting for a sign to tell them they can leave
language on parade language on its head language all done in
just one last language you said
just one last dance

10/14/89

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from Issue 34 of Elderly Mag

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By Scott Wannberg (Feb 20, 1953 – Aug 19, 2011)