I Can Kill You And Then You’ll Die

I can kill you, and then you’ll die.
I can take you wherever you want to go.

I am waiting to see.  I am outside your window.
I am the dither and the reluctant.

I am the atmosphere, the knickknacks, the brass knuckles.
I am something for them: Churches, volunteers, cigarettes
	and handouts.

I am something standing by anything; shiny and metallic.
I have sold employees, I have stolen customers.

I am swarms of them no matter how —
I am the stumble on the curb, the nap in the
	middle of the road.

I am the ragged front, the old coat staring
	inside its face.
I am well aware of the shock of being an American.

I am talked about, in phases.  Thrown back
	to classic foods and out of sight.
I am the plate-glass street: A heat wave of
	cold spells.

I established 1948 right after 1947.
I worked for decades long enough to view
	suspicion in the locals and flocked-to-areas.

I trimmed midnight.  I have a longstanding
	policy: 24 hours till closing.
I am nearly all of them at some point.  I am
	pulling a fast one.

I am its look, its lock, its scowl.  I am its
	spit in an Appalachian accent.
I am that Bible study, culture of clutter;
	they can’t win.

I bar barren fields in every direction.  I crumble
	little houses, empty and quiet.
I am a fling of long-term relationship.

I can do delays.  I can wait for disputes.
I give way to stuck deals, to river projects,
	to limbo.

I afford no resident.  I shed water.  I rage on and on.
I can keep away and take a lot less.
I finish your drinks.

I can kill you.  And then you’ll die.

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