Hard Times in Drop D

I lost so many decades
sitting on a bench,

just waiting for life to begin.

The guy sitting next to
me smoked and smelled of week-old gin,
and you could
tell the handouts
have been
slim.

This is a
fib I’ve
allowed to survive,
waiting to board some
bus emerging
from a blizzard’s eye,
and I’d emigrate
this lie
our greatest hits are
yet to come were it not
running late.

Feeding off
of my pride, it predates you,
crisis of faith
and infidelity
accredited to
some Freudian truth.

This gun to the temple is
driving me mental but
I ain’t in
the business of
rebuking bullets when
staving off the blues is such a
bloody affair.

Grab me by
the hair, it’s your
burden of proof
I’m not going
anywhere.

Sure, it all ends up being
expensive
and nasty,
brutish and short;
a menage-a-trois of
sorts between
death, taxes
and a body at night to keep
you warm.

Mostly, it
seems
decorum is
window dressing lately,
so we’re foreign to them,
blaring
stereos like in
“say anything”,

lotharios in love with
bending the peace but leaving it
mostly undisturbed.

I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but this
is why we can’t have nice things.

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