In case you'd noticed, the titles of each work generally has pretty much nothing to do with anything.
Boys Do Cry, But I Don’t
cleaning out time
dragging bags of waste,
rotting chicken from the stock room
and what appeared to be mold
with bread growing from it,
under the burnt out street lamp
now standing bat-blind in the night
is this all we good for
haulin’ shit from here to there”
deftly lighting a cigarette while speaking
“you want a drag
helps ya cope and such”
he offered the glowing cig to me
I say, as I open the dumpster
and arc the bags into it’s gaping mouth
bet you don’t get laid neither”
he said, in between his loving drags
“what the fuck do you do?”
and I do it,”
I said distantly
“with class”
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