The re-po man
who came for my innocence
hammered on my door
at 2 A.M.
I asked him
if he came at this hour
it was the time of day that whatever happened, it still felt like a dream.
I don’t think he heard me.
He took my innocence away.
And he said a thing
I new surely he said to everyone.
“I’m sure this is just some kind of mistake.
You call your dealer tomorrow.
And work it all out.
I bet you’ll have your innocence back in no time.”
It was a strange thing for a man to say,
who wore a ketchup-stained tank top…
whose beer belly interposed itself between us
like a whole other presence.
I felt absurdly thankful to the man
for his token attempt at comforting me.
The thing I never realized
was that innocence was this anchor
that my hope used to be anchored to.
The next day, my hope floated away.
I guess my hope was maybe a cloud.
I discovered that it had always watered my joy.
Because, when it was gone,
my joy shriveled up and died.
I am trying, now
to talk my faith back in off the ledge.
“What’s the point of it all” it asks
“What’s the point of it all.”