05-01-2016, 11:37 PM
Slowhand
Sunday nights dig
the deepest depressions.
You wallow with pigs
all week, and if you can’t find God
by the Sabbath
all goes dark.
I can’t have them know, so I do it slow.
I call in sick Monday morning,
half-cook a full pound of bacon
and wash it down with Guinness.
We used to draw smiles
in its creamy foam.
My goal is seventy cigarettes
today. The bourbon helps— especially
the first litre. By noon I’ve thrown up twice
and there is a dagger in my gut
that no cop or kin could lift prints from.
I can’t have them know, so I do it slow.
Sunday nights dig
the deepest depressions.
You wallow with pigs
all week, and if you can’t find God
by the Sabbath
all goes dark.
I can’t have them know, so I do it slow.
I call in sick Monday morning,
half-cook a full pound of bacon
and wash it down with Guinness.
We used to draw smiles
in its creamy foam.
My goal is seventy cigarettes
today. The bourbon helps— especially
the first litre. By noon I’ve thrown up twice
and there is a dagger in my gut
that no cop or kin could lift prints from.
I can’t have them know, so I do it slow.