Whether you’re from east Jersey
or East Pakistan,
from the fjords of Norway
or the hot desert sands,
you know this person;
they sold you a car.
They go to your church
or you met in a bar.
You listen and wait
and you wait and you listen;
the point, the big finish
looks so small in the distance,
and still they plod on
with a few more details—
why, they’re just getting started,
the wind’s in their sails.
You look at your watch
and think, surely by now—
whether you were a Girl Scout
or you grew up in Boys’ Town,
or hellhounds and she-wolves
brought you food in their mouths—
you know this person
from some time before;
they saved you in ‘Nam,
you built huts for the Corps
and you know,
sure as that pistol you keep in the drawer,
in the end they will say,
to make a long story short.