he’ll take his whiskey off a drip
yet still winces with each sip.
says he’s got things instilled that ought be killed,
but this pain he can never rid.
he says he dreams of god
maybe that’s why he spends so long
with a drink at hand between one night stands,
catching each hour as they run.

he sleeps less each night,
spoon and needle at his side
as they rock him to sleep with a mother’s ease
kiss his head then turn the light.

he’s got no plans and too much time
counting each minute until he dies.
says his years’ been filled with tears and pills
it would be nice to just unwind.
his friends are concerned
but don’t say a word
they can spot a lost cause and what are the odds
that he’ll be successful this time?