Back To The
I awaken about
noon and go out to get the mail
in my old torn bathrobe.
I'm hung over
hair down in my eyes
gingerly walking on the small sharp rocks
in my path
still afraid of pain behind my four-day beard.
housewife next door shakes a rug
out of her window and sees me:
god damn! it's
almost like being shot in the ass
with a .22
"hello," I say
gathering up my Visa card bill, my Pennysaver coupons,
a Dept. of Water and Power past-due notice,
a letter from the mortgage people
plus a demand from the Weed Abatement Department
giving me 30 days to clean up my act.
I mince back
again over the small sharp rocks
thinking, maybe I'd better write something tonight,
they all seem
to be closing in.
there's only one
way to handle those motherfuckers.
the night harness
races will have to wait.