steve a. manolis poet

Final Stop

Final Stop

 

The twenty in his pocket

Is screaming to be burned

It could buy a week’s worth of food

But he’ll take a hit from a tarnished spoon

And a needle cleaned by his saliva

 

He feeds off it like a horse to water

His belly’s screams go unheard

He is shaking in clothes

Months of this city pile in the fabric

And it’s 92 degrees at 10 am

 

Sanity is an illusion

And the streets are a maze

Hustled with no end in sight

Life is barely sustained

In 2 hour increments

 

His finger buried up his nose

Trying to scratch the itch

Deep in his head

That never goes away

Where god is screaming his name

 

A merry go round

Full of headless horses

Is the ride that he can get on

His is the machinery

Ground to a final stop