Junkies might as well be furniture

The city is alive,
taxis bark,
police whistles
howl.

Winos duck out
of 7th St. Liquors,
brown-bagged
& laser-focused.

Sunlight flashes
in the pan
& everyone says they’re visiting
but they all live here;

in this neighborhood
God needs more
than an alias,
He needs a few disguises.

It’s mid-summer gorgeous,
a creamsicle day & if we
look too close inside
ourselves, our eyes will burn.

It doesn’t take a high IQ
to dream on someone else’s dime
to live below our means
to pull a trigger.

There’s not enough dope
or bridges to burn & we can’t
unsee the unthinkable;
all we really want is a blindfold

& someone to light our cigarette.