Post Card Letter to Church by Alan Catlin

Hey Churchman.

            Been awhile since I’ve written, I know.
Almost a year. What do you say to a dead guy,
anyway? Weird thing is, the other day, I was waiting
to cross the street downtown and there’s this guy
parked in a cab, the driver, parked by Proctor’s
waving at me. Like he knows me, you know?
And he’s got this long blonde hair and a moustache.
Man, I had to look twice.
            Kind of freaked me out at first.  So when
I got across the street, I had to check the dude out.
            Asked, “Do, I like, actually, know you?”
            And, he said, “Man, I thought you were this
drummer in a band.”
            I forget the name of the band. Doesn’t matter
anyway. A drummer, man, it’s come to this.  I know
I can give off a weird vibe but that is the weirdest,
most fucked up vibe there is.  We used to try and guess
which guy was the drummer, at the club, when the new
bands were setting up. You can always tell: subtract
a couple of chromosomes, scramble some brains and
you have the drummer. Only was wrong once on a
couple of years of guessing.
            Anyway, I felt since the hack had freaked me
out so bad, I’d return the favor.  Told him I had this
friend who more than kind of looked like him: long
hair and shit and he drove a cab too. But, it couldn’t
have been him ‘cause he was dead.  Died in his ride,
man, tragic.
            “Yeah, man, “he said, “That really sucks.
See you.”
            Pulled away like pronto, burning oil as he
went just like one of your rides. Fucker didn’t even
offer to give me a lift.


Alan Catlin
Alan Catlin is the poetry editor of His latest books of poetry are American Odyssey from Future Cycle and Last Man Standing from Lummox Press

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