You've been reduced to a man with a moustache
hiding out
from everyone, sitting on the bricks,
letting the buzz penetrate your hair, letting the
sea swim by, releasing the salty urine jars
into the harbor.
There's a level of defeat
that follows you with slanting eyes.
Baltimore gives you heroin and a VD,
and then kills you before the year is up.
Things are dying everywhere and
nobody knows if you're insane or not.
A driver cuts the engine behind you;
you jump awake and catch
the familiar sour scent
of the bar around the corner.
You'd die for a drink,
or to be rid of the wanting.
The cement wafts sour, too.
You get down on your knees
and lick it it off the ground.
That's how bad it's gotten.