Poem: Coin Street

Pawn shop dry cleaning,
Coin street
the piss be streaming,
The arduous battle for
–Who
Shall remain on the saddle
of working life comes to a quick
torn end.

Born to do an honest job
like a human being,
but reduced:
sweating like a kosher meat
before these heavenly trials of judgement,
and defeat.

Butchered like a back alley dog
that ate a banana once a month,
and drank tap water
twice a day.

He put on his Sunday shoes,
cologne to keep away smelly blues,
tried to save his nose from those awful hues.

Ah!

Now I come in if I may,
to his house with my broken arm,
complaining about how my left leg
is shorter than the right.

I had no bread to bring to him,
except my company,
may it work like the flesh of saints,
oblatum to him.

These two fifty bucks
won’t save me for long, and
neither will he.

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