fuzzy-eyed humpers
baby-headed jumpers
I don't need you going
out on a ledge
flipping your lids
life on the skids
because of those things
that you did
that one time in Redondo
or was it Hollywood/Skid Row or
that other time in SoHo
flouncing from one news spread
to the next
has-been cloud-head
holed up in a windowless basement
tea shades on sprawled out on the unmade bed
of some formerly artsy tenement
tacked up jazz poster of the
suicided former resident
a good friend of someone
we'd all met
at Jack's or Jerry's
or Phil's or Joe's
or Fred's