Potshot in the Dark

The bed's been a pyre
its occupant dreaming
of counterfeit cash
found on floors of department stores--
the meaning of which as certain
as the broken gifts given
to wayward accomplices.

By the time the bourbon takes hold
it's too late to evict the devil.
How many times
do our saints pass us by
like sneakers dangling from power lines?

Down to your fightin' weight.
Down for the count.
Down for a drink
or what have you.

Short of screaming her name
it's the closest.
The neighbors are tired
of hearing the smoke.

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