You could usually be
found
in your steel-toed
engineer boots
fearing no evil down in
the
valley of the shadows
under the marquee's
dying red neon
reflecting off
the bumper-hubcap chrome
low-slung Merc' with the windows cracked
and The
personal soundtrack:
He's a rebel and he'll
never be any good
and you manning the night,
our graveyard-shift
sidewalk superintendent
our grim midnight
crossing-guard,
our small-town cross
between
James Dean and Brando
with a little James
Coburn sprinkled
around that toothpick or
Lucky
poking out the corner of
your rugged mug
and ‘Born to Lose’
tattooed
big and blue like a bad
bruise
on the back of your wrist
and we half-pint, shrimp-boat
wannabe street-urchins
hanging
pilot-fish-close when the
bullies
put the pressure on
because
belying all that
bad-assss badness
was a scarred,
tarnished-white
knight willing (for some
reason)
to champion the justice
of us
little guys and underdogs
looking up to you through
your
crummy self-esteem and
wishing
that we too (like you)
born to lose
