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On My Own

Poem

Photo by Alfred Steigletz

On my own

Against the tempest

With the roar of I-55

The smell of latakia.


Old Glory, God Shed his Grace

On thee! Tangled against the ramp

Until the poll snaps again.


Then the Old Man next door comes home

Like always, every Friday Night.

He’s got no job, no family

Save a kennel of Dobermans.


He’s got two bags of horde in his arms,

Sultan the cat is watching

While Ayatollah licks his nuts.


There’s a swamp of rainwater at his feet,

And the Old Man has their food for this week.

Then along comes Poor Ol’ John Hardy

With a glock in his jeans.


He shouts ‘Give me your

Goddamn wallet!’

The Old Man says ‘Boy I ain’t got

Shit for cash!’

So Poor Ol’ John Hardy shoots

The Old Man,

And goes for his loot.


All he finds are bags of

Doberman Chow, last month’s

Chicago Sun Times

And a used EBT card.


He turns and says;

‘I just wanted his

Goddamn wallet!’

Then hits the old West Virginia Trail.


Finally, some silence again.

I’m on my own

Against the tempest

With the roar of I-55

And the smell of latakia. 

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On My Own
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