God found a better job

I hear echoes in the walls, the rattlings of a voiceless savior. Bills pinned to the pantry, I can only sit here and drink and clear my head enough to think that maybe there’s a way to clean the water from our floors. It’s been pooling here a while, coming up to our shins, late nights home from work up in four hours for the next commute. You come home in the mornings sometimes from a bar and find me sleeping on the couch, curled in sweatshirts under blankets. The crib in the bedroom is quiet, swaying gently, and you feel the child’s forehead just to know he isn’t ice. We’ll have a tax return soon to buy heat and more booze. Anything to stay warm and hear the echoes in the walls.

Dreams tend to ferment in vats of wasting time.

You didn’t see me cry as I drove home from work. You didn’t answer your phone, when all I needed was for you to ask if I was okay; I spent some money for gas and spent the rest on a six-pack, got drunk by myself with the child in his crib and for a moment I forgot there was no larger point to this. Than to let the cold water creep onto the bed, fill the fridge, and the pantry, and the cabinets. But for the kid that cries in the crib, when mommy and daddy are too tired and drunk to get up out of bed.

I swear we’ll never win.

You didn’t get a degree when you had the chance. I never had the chance. Sweat labor’s honest work but it doesn’t feed the house. Nor the bureaucratic mouths, with financial attention – I didn’t tell you I almost punched the clerk at the DMV. There’s another hundred-dollar fee to have our registration reinstated, which we may be able to pay once the water goes down. But it won’t go down. The good graces of the landlord wearing thin, the favors of your parents overdrawn, and a car in the driveway that won’t turn-over, the water won’t go down.

I sit here at night too tired to cry, and drink until I’m crazy enough to think there’s a way we’ll get by; that there’s a reason for us to try.

A voiceless savior rattles in the walls, and the heat vents are filled with just echoes.

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13 comments

  1. oldepunk · February 3

    Reblogged this on RamJet Poetry and commented:
    Mick Hugh is a fucking genius

    Like

  2. oldepunk · February 3

    Mick, this is my favorite piece from you. Are you hiding in my closet at night? This really resonated with me. Thank you

    Liked by 1 person

  3. secretfirstdraft · February 3

    Reblogged this on Secret First Draft: A Site of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective and commented:
    The brilliant Mick Hugh of Mick’s Neon Fog

    Like

  4. Nicholas Osborne · February 3

    So many handholds here—so many outcrops of personal identification onto which I find myself clinging. This is beautifully deep, honest, and speaks audibly to the tortured soul. Thought I’d stop by to issue a ‘thank you’ for adding this to my day. I thank you.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. jessamayann · February 3

    You captured the struggle in a steel cage! Loved it.

    Like

  6. jasperkerkauwriting · February 3

    I have been floored by writing less than 10 times in the last year, really fucking floored, stop what I am doing and splash some water on my face and regroup floored. Three of those 10 were pieces by Mick Hugh. This is the third. Olde Punk is right. Mick Hugh is a fucking genius. How to we help to get the word out to the rest of the world? They need to know!

    Liked by 1 person

    • MickHugh · February 4

      There’s going to be collections of SD someday, printed by major publishers. It’ll all come around, somehow.

      Like

  7. Sudden Denouement · February 4

    Reblogged this on Sudden Denouement Literary Collective and commented:
    The brilliant Mick Hugh of Mick’s Neon Fog

    Like

  8. saynotoclowns · February 4

    This tea I’m drinking, is suddenly tasting salty. I’ve been saying a few times that WP needs a love button, but maybe it needs a collective hug button, or cyber pub button, or something. Thank you for this extraordinary piece.

    Liked by 1 person

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