where you're hungry
and get a thin layer
of saliva on the filter
so it never sticks right to your lips
and nothing about it's enjoyable
except for its end.
He'd considered endings
for months, bleeding through bandages
kissing hands and shaking babies
in an effort to take the edge off.
The sheets changed for scandalous reasons.
He'd dealt with his transgressions
like a cat burying shit
while foulweather acquaintances
solicited for pills.
No one left gets it, he hummed
as he jingled his keychain around in his hand
pursuing the one
for the front door of his building.
It didn't appear.
He thought about Japanese soldiers
falling onto blades
equally forged of honor and steel.
It was well after midnight
on a Thursday.
No neighbors were returning
who could help him get upstairs.
He walked around back to the parking lot
but his car key was missing, too.
He thought about necromancy
and his grandfather's rifle cabinet.
And then he kept on walking.
Don't be alarmed, but
the rent's now two months overdue
they towed his car five weeks ago
and police knocked down his door
when the stench of his rotting trash can
was mistaken for the odor of corpses.
The landlords aren't happy
and tacked the repair bill to his rent
muttering of a security deposit.
There are rumors hydroplaning
through circles feigning friendship;
southward sweeping seas;
the spiral down to heaven.
If you see him
tell him I get it.
Home is where you're wanted.
"Suttree" by Cormac McCarthy.