The grass is greener on the other side,
so they say
I never minded the bright stains
or the sight of road **** remains.

You get older and the stains morph to chains
and rips
and whips and cheap tricks.
Cigarettes and dice
and I'm still learning to tie my kicks.


Years later and the front door's pounding
waking up without recollection--
I ease and tip-toe without sounding
off any alarming
action
that would cause reaction
and astound
forcing the men in suits to over-zealously bound
over the couch towards me
and unrightfully
clap on irons and exit the engrossed hostile environment
I've founded in this unconscious establishment


Now I lie every night
holding an ongoing staring battle with the concrete stone above me
and dream of the tricks
fly kicks
druggy flings
and the bright green stains on my knees.