by
Michael Steele
| Lying in the gutter, with leeches and back slid preachers. His eyes fuzzy yet focused, gaze upon a sad creature, with blood shot pupils, a mouth full of cotton lies, vains edged to surface, by countless attempted suicides, hollow features face down in beer suds, the pugnant sewage wifts to his open nose, then a dollar is found, he rises to his feet, runs back to the bar, in leaps and bounds, not for food but for another drink, wondering if he will see his children next week. |
