TEN O' FOUR ON A MONDAY NIGHT
Back at home,tomorrow has broken from it’s cocoon
Brightly speckled,
illuminating the just-past-midnight alleys and streets.
I’d like another round, if possible,
because the people here are unkind,
and anything but forthright.
We have that in common, it seems.
I’m on my third Pabst Blue Ribbon,
and I feel an uncomfortable pressure
bellowing closely to it’s threshold,
next to my pancreas and spleen.
What sweet relief, nature’s body
a deposit in porcelain,
and I’m back on my feet,
back at my temporary post
awaiting my last Pabst of the evening.
What once was ten o’ four on a monday night
is now drunk and alone at ten twenty five.
no one wants to hear a poem about your bms, bill. :| :|
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