forever the beggar, king of no kingdom
but the dusty lanes of nowhere, he smiles
for his dimes, a blessing for a dollar;
at midday, or when whim strikes him, or
once the coins add up to a little something,
he slips down to the huck’s on carpenter
street for a magnum of malt (and a pint
of brandy, E-n-J, on a flush day).
he’s the emperor of has-been, alone
but for the voices that torment him, his
hell on earth, exacerbated by hang-
over and depletion of niacin
causing his brain to burn, soften, and betray
him, his personal brutus, the bottle.

dmpitchford