MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON

 

Trail Of Tears In The Snow

Footprints in the snow, fresh.

Will your divorce lawyers talk

to Jesus this night—

set me chain-free.

I set you on your traveling ways.

Searching, we'll both be curiously searching.

Even hell has its standards burn with grace—

jukebox baby, we'll meet again

in the end, in that big black box.

Jesus suffers with the poor and the lost.

Jesus is the lead tempo rubato

for both of us now bounce around

robbed of our stolen time.

Let me drive you home for the last time.

Coming home to go on separate paths.

Footprints fresh in the snow, two paths

forked off in different directions.

Hear diverse sounds —

on the FM radio, our favorite tune,

with age, it will become a classic

'Sympathy For the Devil,' The Stones,

jukebox, baby, put another quarter in.

In My Will

In my will, there will be a pinball machine.

A renovated jukebox from American Pickers,

a cable TV show. For the taverns, bars, 

and basements of fun seekers for those

who long to be free and ferocious.

I no longer fear death.

Empty vodka bottle by my bed.

A dusty Bible underlined

Jesus’ messages 

in red.

MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON