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Portrait of a Drunken Boy

Half-past one,
The street-lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said…

—It was only that and light was all it needed


and a certain cleanness and order…

Here comes the lonely pimp,


In his purple hat,
All by himself.
Where da hoes at?
Should have never tried
To be not-him—
But how could he have
known dat?

Swimshoe puddles slosh.


Lamp orbs of light along, alone watch.
A bell rocks, clanging
Forlorn.

No one at diner.
No one in café.

Felt fedora shadow


Slants across face
And fancies of lone lamppost leaning sleuth
Flash across his mind.

It’s devious, it waits.


Who can play this game?
The fog slinks towards his feet.
Undone. To bed, to rise

To fill
The chocolate scam,
A flavor that’s bitter and smooth.
Senses have been made most crucial to him.
Now an empty can.

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