His work boot's
steel toe
catches a high-lipped
sidewalk seam.
Part of it's the ache of Friday
when he shat blood for the shop all week;
the vodka's guilty, too
but at least he tipped her well;
and more than either
aforementioned reason
it's ignorance on the block
again:
"They love one another
and
he completes her,"
a wispy blonde
whose circulatory system
shows through the skin
not covered by her
earth-toned summer dress
explains from her nose
in a British tourist's accent
that easily whites knuckles
of any blue-blooded Joe.
She and her companion
also of the fairer sex
stride by a blind cartographer
taking with them what's been promised
by a fairytale that started
down between some woman's legs.
Trying not to burst out laughing
like a maniac on Main
he decides to ask
a looker out
as soon as he finds home.
If one squints hard enough
they almost all look sane.
He never met a horse
that he could bet on
but he finished every race.
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