The Night I Carried Kristofferson's Bag

by Caustic Casey

MY life, it seemed empty a time ago,
lacking direction and depth, any ebb, any flow.
I needed a lift from being jaded and sad.
It all happened the night I carried Kristofferson's bags.

On a steamy summer night way way out east,
I saw him perform — quite well, to say the least.
After the show, my heart lolled and it sagged,
not knowing I'd soon be carrying Kristofferson's bags.

I'd brought my guitar to strum in my room,
but I felt so small after seeing him loom
above the crowd, in the glow of klieg lights,
mournfully singing, ''Help me make it through the night.''

I stood a little loaded, outside in the lot,
a beer in one hand, and a cookie infused with pot.
I wanted to meet him, but I didn't know where.
Then I spotted his bus, I knew he'd be there.

Just then he appeared, stepping out of his room,
hair freshly washed, glistening under the moon.
I couldn't speak, my body just froze.
Then I heard myself say, "Kris, ya need a hand with those?"

This seemed like a dream, kinda unreal, you see —
I was walkin' next to the writer of ''Me and Bobby McGee''
He probably doesn't remember the short talk we had
Or the thrill I felt from carrying his stupid bags.

Fuck 'im.

*First-prize winner, asinine poetry literary contest, fall 2001

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