kicked up by the shit-stained penny loafers
of streetwise drunkards, you catch the reflection of
a cracked-glass-half-ass ally clock
in the greasy puddle a few inches away.
Your fast flood of tears sting running through
new cuts and reopened nightly wounds, but they
ache more so in your fickle consciousness and
lack there of because this scene is not new to you.
Your internal bleeding forces you into contortions
but before you can curl up for comfort attempts,
those shit-stained penny loafers drive themselves
through thick clods of tar and cigarette ash --
on a dingy New York night between abandoned broken buildings
that force your vitality under shadowed beatings --
and thrust into your sweat-covered swollen ribs.
And you tolerate sickening swallows of those volatile fluids
rushing up your throat, drowning out fistfuls of
scratched cries of despair, and you can do nothing
but sit there and plead with God that, if he exists,
he'll obstruct the pain and leave your every-night-wounded body
to those shit-stained penny loafers
and the poor excuse of a man standing in them
who calls himself your dad.