After spinning a quarter
of chance:
decapitation of the
Georgia Moon bottle
yummious numbious.
Quickly gone.
I throw the empty
down a rain gutter,
not the streets
where we crawl.

No winkle time alas,
spewing sewage
in a street too dark
for needing glasses.

My shoes.
Dammit, my SHOES!
A crappy pair,
but they’re all I’ve got.

A deep fried smell
is coming from a vent
opposite to the dumpster,
as usual.
I imagine chicken
breaded oh so nicely
in my alley.

I’m not homeless;
my flat box pops up
and has curtained openings,
it’s my palace.

I don’t intend to take on
a shopping cart,
that means you’ll never get out.
And I’m getting out.

I’m between jobs,
but I’ll get back in the game.
A few more dollars
and I can buy new clothes…
new kicks…and whatever
they put in those fry vats.

For now, I can dive into refuse,
find day old meats perfectly good.

I think of a nice hot shower.
Why don’t they want me,
even when cleaned up?

Belch!

I say sorry to the rats.
Rats have better manners than people.
I feed them every night,
‘cause they don’t bother me.
They like me, unlike humans.

I pick up bouncy balls, cat toys, and
whatever I can find to give them
something to play with.
They’re like my children.
Was married, 2 mil a year, and divorce.
She got it all…turns out that was
all she ever wanted, not me.

Now I’m just someone’s bum uncle.
Never invited for holidays,
like I’m some kind of leper.

Some doctors at Bellevue
tell me I “self-medicate”.
When I took their drugs it was worse,
worse than a bad trip
or a what’s left of that pint of shit
in my stomach.
I was catatonic, had no feelings.
I was dead.
But I escaped.

Now I’m alive.

People may ignore me,
but I know what I’ve got.
It’s a good thing.

Goodnight rats.
Time to dive into my box
and close the curtains.

Home.