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
of somebody’s low-slung Merc’ with the
windows cracked and The Crystals
belting out your personal soundtrack…
He’s a rebel and he’ll never be… any good…
You, manning the night, our graveyard-shift
sidewalk-superintendent, the 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 blue
like a bruise on the back of your wrist…
and we half-pint, shrimp-boat, wannabe
street-urchins hanging pilot-fish close
when the bullies were putting the pressure on…
because belying all that bad-asss badness
was a scarred, and 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,
could somehow be born to lose…
