Deep set eyes
and a rural smile
that made rummaging mess
of my shoulders
Half cocked eye
and a pipe of weed
and a wink that stank
of gasoline
Bloated and groaning
a belt bursting with loathing
and a St. Chris hanging pendulous
with each drawn breath
Hair all dishevelled
and a watch gold and rough bevelled
that only ran backwards
in the shade
Knuckles still damp
and the stubbled chin of a champ
gleaming with gravy
and cheap beer
How can I be of service?
His voice was all surface
and his monied lenses
strained to notice my tears
Vast Imbecility 