Erratica

I shuffle down the street
in order to keep from limping,
but it never works. Too much
clutter on the sidewalk, and I'm
not taking a chance on the gutter.

Not any more.
I spent too many days, even more
nights, clutching Dr Mad-Dog to
my chest and indulging in my own
brand of brown paper therapy after
the Peroxide Princess sent me to
the curb. But I got up, just like

I used to get up every time she
wanted me to. Morning, noon,
middle of the god-damn night,
Ain't my fault it had a hole, but
can't say anything but, "Here's
your check. How's she doing?"