Free Jukebox

My tan is peeling off, and the days
are seeming shorter.
The parking meter's running out,
and the jukebox doesn't take my quarters.
He says my life must be a poem,
or I couldn't make things ryhme.
"I make shit up and force the words to fit,"
I quickly reply.
He nods his head and tells me
that he's not surprised.
So my mom's off to the liqour store,
oh she'll be walking home alone
with a paper bag filled with who-knows-what,
and her glassy, breaking bones.
I wish I could stay in the bar for
just another minute,
when I inform him of this, he
reaches into his pockets and starts grinning.
I want to hug him, but my nerve departs,
he wraps the quarters
in my left hand's heart.
I ask him if he's sure that these
are supposed to be for me.
He says they were for the jukebox,
'til he realized it was free.
When I get back, sure that the
money is gone, he gets up to leave.
"What are you thinking?" I hum
to him, "Are you leaving now?"
He smiles and nods his head
again, says, "My meter's running out."