I scored the home coming touchdown, I got the game
ball. I lived the three bedroom,sports car, trophy wife dream.
I worked hard, I played well with others. I never ran with scissors
in my hand. I was one of but a thousand points of light.
I made a difference in a system I believed in. Salvation ran
a tent down on Alamo Street, saving lost souls one meal at a time.
I remember thinking, " You've got yours and I've got mine, but who's
keeping track of all those people living outside our reality?"
The bottom fell out in '94. I just didn't see it coming. Now I slug
my way through with the ham fisted myopia of an aging pugilist.
Boxing sandlot venues and construction sites ... for new scars,
broken teeth and bankroll enough to crawl to the next event ...
Yourtown, USA. I am the vacant stare on the corner, whose eyes
betray the tales we never tell. The one who makes you want
to turn and run away. Today I lived hand to mouth ... tomorrow
I'll be just another statistic, in an unmarked pauper's grave.