Absinthe Minded

Absinthe Minded

The grease of butts thicken the walls of my lungs.
Absinthe mindedly, I gather my belongings,
And prepare to evict myself from the presence of
Strangers that have possessed my friends.
Back on the streets, I feel home?
Away from the blonde jokes, bad breath and
Dermitilogical appraisals,
I slide from one doorway to the next,
Blessing, forcing myself into the
Business Class section of my life.
I tremour with enourmous peace,
Absinthe mindedly shaking the
Champagne bubbles from my upper
lip, calling the sidewalk stewardess
For a membership to the mile high club,
Then regretting it because...home?
I have no pockets all I have is empty pockets.
I run a hand across my newly shaven head,
Feeling the bumps and crevasses of baseball
Bat caresses and hockey stick past, sensing
The next blow in the brown paper bag, held, protected, by my side.
But there’s a deficiency on the streets
Tonight; that familiar, arrogant prejudism
That makes paper cuts on my irises
Is missing. That’s why it just doesn’t feel like home...I think
Absinthe mindedly.

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