Pockets

Pockets

The bitterness

of morning,

and a thin crust

of bread,

a breakfast telegraphed

by the rubbing

of nickels

in an old mans pockets.

 

But he smiles as he chews,

and makes the best

of another gray dawn,

waking up on the beach,

sand still

in the corners of his eyes.

 

The ever present hangover

a not so subtle reminder,

he will have to beg again

to keep the devil down.

 

So he pushes wrinkled palms

for paper

and small change,

just enough

for a handle

of supermarket bourbon,

and an apple

and a pear.

Reviews

[Misery]

Superlative...
Your words paint the finest pictures, dear poet.