My long day’s doctor’s doctored me:
gin; a slice of orange; warm soup.
Still, my sadness goes traipsing after
the milkman, won’t come home to roost.
If we could call it home, or sadness,
the medicinal ice shivering in the glass;
if we could mistake, once and for all,
bird for eye, silence for a lack
of disaster. The banker will call anyway,
the mortgage dropping its coins
into his satchel. In black and white days
he was the villain, but now no one
minds his Mercedes.
You must pay! But I can’t pay! You
must/I can’t, etc. Thus the gin
and a sort of rattle near my spleen,
yellow dog curled at my feet.
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