In the street, the drunks mock Last Call,
then return to their lives of constant hangover
and mid-morning skeletons. I turn to my new
lover, a girl with perfect teeth and razors
in her eyes. She says she knows an after-hours
spot where we can grow numb and never sober.
Baby, I say I only got a bad heart and loose change,
just enough for one song about broken wings
and stretched-too-thin lies. It’ll do she says.
She’s a cheap date but a costly lay.
In the bed of night where there’s a constant
turnover of housekeepers, she’ll say she wants more
but I’ve already disappeared into the
Hobroken of middle-age stamina,
irregular bus schedules.
On my tomb it will read:
They only accept exact change.
Kyle Hemmings lives and works and dies in New Jersey. He’s been pubbed in a number of places.