Meth Sucks. Try Poetry.

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A snippet of his cellphone screen
Was exposed,
Off the ear and cheek. As conversation progressed
Amid him and a invisible body. Captured in the snippet
Was a reflection of sunlight,
That danced on the sidewalk.
While he paced in a circle like a caged tiger,
Anxious to be viewed by zoo patrons.

But this animal was impervious
To the nonchalant voyeurs.

He was screaming uncensored confab.
A:
“I fucking told you what I want already!”
And
“A fucking moron could do your job!”

I fancied the victim
Of such verbal abuse
Red faced.
Scrambling with tense footsteps,
To appease their master.

And yes, I was hungry.
And yes, I had no money for food.
And yes, the overseer looked dashing
In his navy blue suit that squared his shoulders
Like a boxer.

But I wasn’t imposing passion
Towards frivolous stuff.
That was stuff
And could be replaced.

I was just following his vulture circles,
Around the corpse of speech
He was feasting on,
Wondering how to put the scene
In a poem.

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