the miserable
old bastard
with the red
splotched skin
darting little
rodent eyes
always sat
at the corner
of the bar
always facing
the door
he would squint
into the sunlight
that streamed into
the poorly lit
the door opened
his quavering hand
holding tight
to the shot glass
ready to
slam it down
and charge
whomever it was
that finally came
to get
a piece of him

he would talk about the many affairs the married women across the state that he would visit his glory days that sounded as empty as the cigarette machine standing unplugged by the juke box if you bought him a shot he would tell of running naked as gunhots sent concrete splinters flying to cut his ass if it was late enough in the afternoon he would offer to show you the deep one on his right cheek

like clockwork
he would take out
a little white machine
he kept in a plastic bag
with seven eleven
once proudly
but faded
like the varnish
of the bar
or the spark
in his
once vibrant
green eyes
now the color
of money
he would
stick a finger in
a little needle
would strike
to prick his finger
then he would wait
to see how bad
the number was
sometimes he would smile
order another shot
others he would groan
jab insulin
into his leathery stomach
and order another shot

my entire life has been controlled by pricks, the bosses at work, the cops with their badges, the one between my legs doing most of the thinking, the tester, the insulin, and if’n i am being honest about it all, i am tired of them all, tired of waiting for one of those bastards to find me and pull me into that alley and give me one final prick with six inches of steel, when all i ever wanted was a drink and a dame, which doesn’t seem like too fucking much to me, fucking pricks

i just nodded
and ordered
another shot
for the both of us
watching the door
and wondering
who would
be coming
for me

2 thoughts on “prick

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