Grace Intoxicated

We are all crazy
in our own way
hiding tiny pieces of
ourselves from the world

I may run along the Lakewalk
at seven and a half minute miles
marked by my Garamin GPS watch
at three in the afternoon
past a picnic table of local drunks
yelling “fuzzzk you bitch”
and “I don’t care about anybody, anybody”
smoking Marb 100’s, passing around a forty
in seventy degree heat

Running in perfect form
past a woman sleeping on a bench
skin turning red, sweat gleaming
across her cheeks
wearing a knit winter hat
faded black sweatpants
and a navy blue t-shirt
with a ripped up right sleeve
bare feet jut off the edge
years of disappointment
and loss sculpted into the fierce way
she clutches her elixir
wrapped in a brown paper bag
mumbling softly
“you told me you loved me,
you loved me....”

Maybe for a second
I feel good about myself
juxtaposed next to them
their mistakes
their pain on display
like a storefront window
in a shop called CRAZY

Only I partially envy them
with my mistakes, my
neatly packaged pain
hidden from the world

What would it feel like to fall apart
right outside the Biffy
in Canal Park
amidst a swarm of tourists
to yell, and cry, and scream, and pound my fists
on the cement until they bleed
shedding light on my darkest secrets
on my imperfections