I was an action figure
with my legs taped to a model rocket
and when the experiment took place
the rocket did not fly
and the exploding solid-state engine
blew me to smithereens

I was a Wagon Driver
out in the Old West (Probably North Texas)
and when those bandits waylaid me
I was left to starve and melt to death
in the harshest of the desert suns
over someone else’s delivery

I was a Brittish Grenadier
back in old ’39, and there was
not a place for me to hide from
the flying, screaming, burning shrapnel
of mortar-fire that ripped out
my throat and guts

And now, I am a poet
and I drive an old car all day
and my radio doesn’t work quite right
and sometimes my ends don’t meet
and I swear to God, some people
just get all the luck