Even as a kid, “Exile,” was a strange
and far out term. To lose your home was just

careless, I thought. But it’s happened and change
is my undoing. I pray but no lust

or gods dwell in this snip of Michigan.
No long lonesome train calls at three a.m.

No wet dreams or devils to stamp cloven
hooves and call me, “mine.” As far as Bedlam

goes, “Beer City, USA,” sucks. Perhaps.
Exile? That word. I don’t think it means what

I think it means. Isn’t this nostalgia
for times of plenty before your collapse?

Only you, fool, cast yourself out. Uncool
but true. Chastity keeps me wry and cruel.