Saturday mornings with Jack Kerouac-
that Jazz tone and tremble still ringing
in your ears from the night before,
a beatness that never slumbers.
“It’s strange what long trips people take in their lifetimes…”
It’s strange what a long trip a lifetime is.
Real Saturday mornings are dull brown coffee
and bacon-laced kisses,
wrapped up in Woody Guthrie flannel
bright light peeking out from behind
too cold curtains and hearts.
I try to picture Kerouac here today,
what he would look like, smell like, sound like:
I imagine him as some mix between my friend Gabe
and Elvis, caring and strong and crazy.
Kerouac would be dancing around the kitchen
with all of us,
socks sliding on the wood floor
the spatula a microphone
stopping the next minute to scribble down his dreams
from the night before
of train rides
and his late father.
Glowing like the desolation angel he was,
and we’d glow too.