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.
About the Creator
Dyl Elner
Just a wanna-be writer, not much else.
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