Sinking in the smell of sour whisky
I try to stand and fail.
The sun burns my eyes,
yet is oddly comforting.
I flump against the wooden door.
Legs crinkle beneath me like
old French fries,
and arms embrace a heaving gut.
Passersby turn their heads away
so as not to see the demons that
pour from my throat.
Where is the shade tree
I sleep under?
Where is the night that
hides me?
Moving to a shadow in the wall,
the smell of piss is
a turbulent force inducing
more wretchedness.
I am a shadow of a man
a demon in the dark
seeing only that which overtakes me.



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