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It's seven in the morning
and I’m smoking butts from the ashtray.
All I’ve got to drink is wine.
I hate wine in the morning,
but I didn’t have the discipline to save a few beers.
My morning would be complete
with a 6 pack and some smokes,
but I can’t yet brave the walk to the liquor store.
I can’t face all the regular fucking people
in their corporate drag
hurrying off to work,
or the old ladies
walking their small dogs,
or the charming gung-ho crossing guards,
and the parades of children
off to say the pledge of allegiance,
and to learn the proper use of a condom.
My Uncle Rusty had the right idea
he’d stash beers all over the house,
in his sock drawer,
in the stove,
in his boots,
and even though he would always
drink the ones he would stash in the crisper
there would still be some for the morning...
I used to be able to sleep till noon
but even then there was the lunch rush to avoid.
The young men the same age as me delivering beer to the taverns,
the house painters,
the carpenters,
the phone company repair men,
all of them with the satisfaction of the day half over,
and me with my dark shades and the pocket full of change
buying cheap beer and generic cigarettes.
All in, and my day hadn’t even begun.
If I were a rich man
I’d have these bare necessities delivered,
or at least stock up better at night,
but then
if I could do all that
it wouldn’t be my life would it...
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