Get Well Soon in Normal entries

I haven’t written a poem in a long time. I’m open to the idea that I still haven’t. But this ugly little bastard was going to keep pestering me until I wrote it down or drowned it in rum. Why rum? Because it’s open. I was making some kind of drink with ginger ale. I wanted to call it alpaca-lypso, but I think it was just rum and ginger ale.

There’s a drink, it might be particular to Michigan, called a Boston Cooler. It’s very specifically soft serve and Vernor’s ginger ale, though, you might be able to use real ice cream. Why Boston? I don’t know. There are about five local ‘Coney Island’ hotdog places around here. Your choices are Flint or Detroit style Coney Island. I don’t know even more, or less, depending on which direction you are coming from.

So, the poem doesn’t have a name yet, a few suggest themselves, too obviously if you ask me. I gotten too used to be forced to title entries I’m not confident in my ability to name something that really needs a title.

I’m somewhere in East Texas
And I’m not going to get well soon
Everything howls
All copper green and angry.

There’s a mile post just up the way
It just sits there
No one seems to notice
There’s no home for it to go to.

Alchemy in an El Camino
Up on blocks
At Joes Texaco;
I’m not going to get well soon.

It’s always somewhere in East Texas
Even here, where I am again
I left so many times;
It didn’t take.

Spring is late
And the 6AM train
Brings pale dawn
Over the swamp and corn.

I’m not going to get well soon
I’m not going to a better place
I ambled away from grace
And am lost.
I just can’t wait to burn in hell.