I sleep with the pigeons, I sleep under bridges, a deteriorating photograph is all I have. She left with that winner, the one that looks like an athlete but he's actually an artist you know, the one that gets noticed. I can't blame her, I've lost it all. These are the types of injuries that occur when the ethics are below your pay grade. So now I sleep under bridges, the grass is my bed, and I bathe with the pigeons. I keep a hat on my head while I read the paper with my shoulders hunched over, although I don't get cold anymore.
Agitated at how this guy has me figured out, I just want to throw him on the ground. I look up at the board in front of me now and see that Bukowski has me cornered again and I want to scream expletives as loudly as I can, but I catch myself just before I begin to vent because the three and four year old children all around are the only people that don't yet hold me in complete contempt and I'd like to keep it that way.