The Friday Before The Long Weekend

          You come in here

          drunk child

          pour your beer

          down the drain,

          “apple juice,”

          bullshit.

          I can see you,

          I can see

          you, what you

          are doing to yourself

          is something

          I can’t sing about.

          I can point

          to the piss yellow

          drops in the sink.

          I can see the stagger

          in your eyes

          glasses askew

          your voice loud

          cawing

          uncertain bravado

          and you come in here

          to be taught

          to take writing

          but hell,

          what can I teach you

          what can I do?

          Something shaky and terrible

          starts in my belly.

          The sour reality rolls over

          in my throat.

          I can’t do anything

          but talk to the wind,

          to the moon

          but cry out goddamn goddamn

          to stones

          and to other deathless voices

          that I hope will carry

          us all through.