Sweet

Showers
and screwing
are the biggest
distractions
but I don't
miss laying
down never-enough
layers on
August asphalt,
making my
bed in Sheol,
soaking wet
with sweat,
hotter
than hell.
I don't miss
the loneliness
of crowded
sidewalks, and
the invisibility
of the tragically
poor.
I don't miss
standing outside
the Robinson
hoping for
cast-off butts
and loose change
but dreaming
of a seat
near the feet
of a beautiful
cellist making
love with life
and sound,
pulling tears
followed by
laughter
from deep within
who I am,
really.
I will not
miss the sadness
of cast away
family the
fifth or sixth
day of the
month,
check smoked up-
left for us,
the most broken,
to take care of.
We can't
care for ourselves.
I don't miss
letting my mama
down.
Letting you down.
Letting everyone down
for so long.
I won't miss
a chance to
say so.

Bitter

I miss
shuckin' and
jivin' on
street corners,
2 a.m.,
and the bravado
that comes
with pin prick
highs and
self- destruction
cocktails.
I miss the
other-worldly
beauty, and the
out of focus
of being stoned.
The muted tones
and colors,
the edges
of everything
soft.
I miss the
romance
of a broken heart
with none of
it's pain.
I miss the whoop
of downtown
cruisers and
friendly cops
shouting move
along then
hanging out to talk
a minute, just
a couple of guys.
I miss
cowboy mornings
and steam rising
from a snow
covered bedroll
as I wake
near rivers edge
then hot/bitter
coffee and grits
with the rest
of the tramps
at the Sally.