The Walk Of The Wino

I stumble like a penguin through the streets of Baltimore,
all pudding-faced with nowhere else to go.
This is my daily ritual to reach the liquor store,
my cold nose the color of pimento.

Strangers stare at me, but they don’t really want to know,
offended by my presence on the street.
It’s not like I’m contagious or have lost that human glow
I’m as real as anyone you’d ever meet.

Draggletailed and numbly frozen down to my very feet
I drag myself into my favorite place.
The clerk bags up the bottle of the nectar oh so sweet,
I can hardly wait to savor its fine taste.

I count my change to pay him never looking at his face,
quickly grabbing up the package as I go.
And in some dirty alley that I can finally call my place,
I drink to life and feel its friendly glow.

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