Down and Out

Chris LaTray photo

at the crossroads again

begging the bosses for work,

some way to make it, easily,


a monthly grub-steak, a few

bucks in exchange for me,

my aging-marketable abilities,


whatever they may be, since

I need money, shelter, time,

that tick-clocking and increasing


chill-risk factor, whatever

jobs-to-be-got, whatever shit

needs shoveling, cold palms


to be squeezed—I’m your man,

I know I can get it done, keep

my songs buried, be a good


employee till this hollow shell,

my chest cavity, retires to pretend

the black hole is really this blue


heart aching, circling the dying

fire (and our silly, repetitive games)

oh-so briefly before the light fades.

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