Rope Always Helps The Medicine Go Down.

As I travel back, from Trier
to the Luxembourg Gare, I stare
at the people and the way they are content.
My legs are socked in scars

and I must admit it's refreshing,
as a gun wasn't to hand
and the pills aren't useful
without wine to wash them down.

Granted I could do it
but a little one finding me hardly seems
just, I suppose.
The man in the corner, opposite my seat

has been scratching his cock and belching
as he leans to me. If that's my lot,
I am not game. We crossed the Mosel or Moselle et Sure and
I hoped, for a moment, the bridge collapsed and we plummeted -

the entire train, the cock-scratcher included, that
thought didn't last long. Drowning seems an awful way to go.
When I arrive to my so humble abode the white walls taunt me
with words he had confessed.

'A coward.' Perhaps I was, forever living inside a book
or a poem or some other form of fairy-tale delight.
I searched the five storeys for something to use,
a rope, a bottle of wine, I wanted to prove when I said

something,
I was right and I meant it. I wanted to prove I knew better, I was strong.
After a few hours it hardly seemed worth it.
I put on the washing machine,

placed cutlery at the table and sat at the same computer
watching my life go down the drain as I spat my
toothpaste down with it.
Good dental hygiene is the answer to everything.