Inside,
you sleep on the floor.
Empty beer bottles
stain the edges of a
wooden coffee table.
Parking tickets
sit on the ironing board
that blocks the door.

Outside,
you smoke a cig,
tie a flag into a bandana
and snapchat yourself
tripping on route 66
because L.A.
swallowed you at Sunset;
white text quotes
Hunter S. Thompson.
You're so ironic,
but you'll never be him.
So desert your phone
and take a real trip.