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please. like me.
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Bad poetry there’s a moment when
you’re so fucking strung out
the beer sits in your stomach
so far from your brain and
all of the little cars along the road
look like cops. All you wanna do
is go to San Francisco and
maybe play the banjo with a healthy,
loyal dog who also plays the banjo
and your girlfriend doesn’t also but only because she paints
all of the time except the morning when
she makes you eggs with her special, secret recipe and
on some mornings you wake up too and
you both make the eggs together with her special, secret recipe
that kinda came to her one day like
a happy accident kinda thing and
your eyes don’t sting like they do anymore and
you’re not trapped without gas on a road without enough beer
you’re not as lonely as you are just before Christmas
not stuck in that moment where it just hurts so much
that not even your soul
could look back on it.
