Crooked days come bundled up in bunches. They break your brain like a branch. And push you out here asking after something. You should know I don't have.
Some men collapse at the racetrack. Their wrong and beat up, their eyes black. Others wilt in casinos. Roll dice and piss away speedboats. . Some dissolve into bar stools.
We passed eight hundred miles. Talking circles about living with loss. You said your sense of humor's. Always helped you get above and across. . Every hurdle, every chasm.
Styrofoam cup of mud in my good hand. Disembodied voice of God in the trash can. Eyes in the ashes, feeling for the future. Sleeping through the steak out, researching the rumor.