Risk of Flooding
I, am the most stylish man in this Southern City.
I am turned out with magnificent taste,
Catching your eye from way down the main street,
My suit getting sharper with every block
Impeccable. Fine. Art.
I am handsome.
I breathe true confidence,
I sweat perfumed misery.
Frustrated by my place.
I have nothing to celebrate.
This town is a sty of ignorance.
They do not even notice me here.
It brings no joy then,
To be the best.
Here, among the blind.
I have achieved nothing.
Here, it is easy.
I have no pride.
In my existence.
Here, I will stay.
I will not leave.
Here, I do not have to try.
Out of boredom I let go.
Waiting for inspiration to come on the seasons issue
I fade and take my place
On the Grand Parade with all the greats.
In the southern sun
Reflecting the stars of the river past onto my face
And catch your eye
As you recall how that coat has lost its fine shape
And how I, used to be taller.
Reflections blind us
We cannot see in passing
But I have walked this bridge many times before
My shoes know the way home by now.
By Gregory Alft in Songs Half Baked, 2001