walking to work
you just fucked
you should feel good
except you walk through
the mexican neighborhood
hoping for death
because you are thinking about being broke
having no time because of the job
and about your wife, at home,
writing out the bills because
the act makes your system shut down.
you’re a coward.
you lament the fact that it’ll be
another eight hours
before you get to tip the scotch bottle back,
throw on shooter jennings,
and just sink into the couch,
this is the blues.
you are down and out
and your fingers still smell of pussy
but your nose it too busy smelling
car exhaust and garbage.
we all stink.
where is the knife?
where is an inch of water to drown
yourself when you need it?
then the wind howls
and you realize the day is lost.
it is like a crying child in a tight room
when you are nursing another hangover.
you look up the street.
4th avenue is endless.
it is a metaphor for life,
if you ever worked in metaphors.
at about 30th street, you think you’ll
take that bodega up on its offer
of ninety-nine cent tallboys of coors
and go get lost in the park.
then some kid dressed all in red
gets wise with you and pretends to lunge.
you flinch with a fist.
he wasn’t even after you.
he cowers back to his boys
and laughs nervously
and you move on wondering
about the next asshole
on the block
of if it’ll be another misunderstanding
like the alarm clock,
the never-ending years,
and everything else.