One More Day

I came to a decision
in my teen years

that I would change my name
to Red Resolve Revolver. I told no one
but called myself that
in my private moments.
“Red Resolve Revolver,” I’d say
as I left the bathroom, “hell of a shower
you took there. You took the hell 
out of that shower. Nice job on 
the scalp massage, too.”
I dried myself like a gunslinger
and the buttoning of the shirt
was done with all the swagger
befitting one with the name of
Red Resolve Revolver.

After a while, I changed my name
to Wing Face Magoo. In the car
I’d whisper encouragement: “Hey,
Wing Face; hey, Magoo.
You weren’t meant to sit in traffic,
bud.  You were meant to set your smile
flying out over the stopped cars
and transcend. Put your blinders on
and soar!” And I’d crank up
the radio, later the CD player,
even later the iPod, and pretend
my bird visage was somewhere else
as I rocked out with my headspace band,
Wing Face Magoo and The Real.

Over time, I nearly stopped talking 
to myself. If I had a name,
I didn’t use it.  Now and then,
I’d remember Red or Wing
and play those old memories
like a 45, a cassette — mostly
like an eight track with its big-ass CHUNK
in the middle of a long song
the perfect fanfare for a breakdown.

Today I do well to sit up, have
coffee, think about breakfast.
I do what little work I can do
with the points of my fingers
sticking hard upon the letters
on the keyboard. I pull a small living
from the air.  I sold off the swagger
and the soaring for rent money
long ago. Now, with the last
of my red resolve
glimmering faintly under my skin
and the wind of imminently beating wings
on my crepe paper face,
all I can say to myself is
“c’mon, Old Man. One more
day. Just one.”

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About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

One response to “One More Day

  • Eileen

    Some days now, it’s more: Just one more day, please.
    Love the names. Love the flights of fancy. Love the memories they provoke. When the world lay before us…..waiting with bated breathe. At least in our dreams.

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