Wouldn’t it be beautiful,
if I could stay this way
in this room.
With a good book
and two dogs.
A hot meal
and free ****.
Some cigarettes
and a Bukowski,
looking at all the stars around me.
No need for a woman,
and far from perfection.
Fourth quarter, game seven.
A hot shower, and clean laundry.
No ***** and no drugs
no god and no one.
Content on living with deep blues.
Wouldn’t it be beautiful
if I grow old enough
to hate my tattoos.