JIM TRAINER'S POEM OF THE WEEK

me and Butch
laugh about our
suicides
not because it’s funny
but because what else
should we do about it?
there were nights in Houma
waiting to ship out
when the locals thought we were cops
and their girlfriends asked if we were rockstars
there was poetry in a 1-bedroom bar
when the whiskey worked
and I could really love you
we laugh at every
hard and horrible turn we took,
because we were
too smug for white-collar work
and too self-aware for labor,
because we were young once
and we had hope
that’s what hope is,
youth—
without it,
well.

                                                  AUDIO BENEATH PAYWALL

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