Boots melt like a black jigsaw
puzzle at the front door:
We need more
Vodka.
Where are my shoes?
It's the final party in this town,
paid for with the final paycheck,
and my home's wrecked
by final friends
who need to be out by noon.
All these hyenas
Sniffing through dollar bill tubes,
needing an excuse
to get stoned and struggle
through buzzes and swoon
I watch like the supervisor of love
that I am,
Effective as Spam
smacked against the wall
Gripped by booze.
Pain is need
two hundred miles of scars
Like bugs
that stick to my truck
A collection of doom
And I'll wake up tomorrow
thinking I could have been
sixty miles to the wind;
Instead, eyes bleeding
to an alarm's salty croon
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