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."