deepundergroundpoetry.com
Head On
Walking on the road
listless-lost-lone
I bump into a man
withering-wrung-wrecked
More of an atavistic relic
he smells worse than death
more like a startled roadkill
with the innards spilling
His eyes are empty
a dead giveaway
The one word flashing in my mind
is shower
Akin a Pavlov Dog I insert my
hand inside my denim hoping that
I might find a ten [or something]
my fingers feel something
I take it out
It's a sperm bank coupon
may be worth five hundred
that could last me a week
[or more]
I see his outstretched hand
hand it over to him
despite myself ourselves
we both smile and go our
separate ways each of us
probably mouthing
O dear life
or may be not
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