Quita

Alone at the bus place, you ask for a smoke. you're not the patient, in a white coat, who struggles sedated, like a daughter brought home, who’ll sweep up remains, like others fix horses, for some kingdom unnamed, once more you're broke, the trouble you create, a drunk without jokes, crying on the pavement, lost to your ghosts, in a red lipstick fragrance, your bottle is a freighter, to welcome your hosts, don't feed the alligators, your beautiful soul. not through your bones, nor for your good, it merely drips when you're alone, by sun, moon, your breath, it will bring no ruin, stay close to your friends, for ones who may atone, gamble everything, all our days inseed, including the kitchen sink, houses bought under Kennedy, moving like you wouldn't mind, a sense of ease