The grit and the gall of it all!

The tarmac skidding the skin, 

the dirt marking the scrapes. 

The dry blood gripping at the side of the hand, 

the sore lip tear rigged with biting teeth.

Heart ache pulling the ribs,

like kidneys breaking. 

To live and fight the fight. 

To tear your own hair – and –

break your own nails – and –

push your own way across the walls of reality. 

To make it to the places and people 

that are yours.

Then, it fists first against the wall, 

just to catch a breath.

But what if it’s palms first – instead –

this time.

What if palms press across the paint – instead –

this time,

leaving room for the forehead 

to rest against the surface.

Like prayer, 

or respite, or something, 

this time.

A surrender.

Or just a damned break, or something! 

It doesn’t need to be that long.

Or, what if just turning around – this time –

so the wall lines the spine – this time –

maybe even a walk, this time.

Hands in pockets

or crossed behind your back, 

like nothing is waiting. 

Like there is no need to be crushed 

under a weight that has lifted,

by the banality of just saying: OK.

OK to the knowledge

that the mind lies 

when the soul seeks –

it lies about who best to go to –

and for what. 

Leaping through the dark alley,

overwhelmed with the overfamiliarity  

of the heart pounding:

This is not safe.

But it’s shorter! And, it’s habit

overrides the obvious possibility 

of going another way. 

The grit and the gall to be had.

Saving yourself the trouble 

of holding on to dead weight, 

when you can be training

for the heavy lifting required 

to carry what life will throw 

your way, 

instead.

The grit and the gall to be had. 

Living here and now,

instead of the past –

where neither the questions,

nor the answers,

are to be found.  

The grit and the gall of it all.