It's coined in cuprous saliva
and foiled by caffeine
but the notion
remains the same:
a Freudian slit indeed.
"I'm a passing dream
that makes sense
once in awhile,"
should've been my last words
though they weren't.
With nothing scripted
it's tough to play Bogart
especially without
the smoking indoors.
Gas station roses
and pharmacy cards
will have to suffice
for the rendezvous.
Some nights I envy all of you
until I remember:
you're faking it, too.
It's like when you drive so far
that road names and townships
from your realm are repeated.
It's like when your best friends
are headstones.
What would Doc Holliday do?
He'd make more.
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