Un-Lubricated

(This is a chronologically written prequel to a poem in my last book Gagging on the Wishes that will be in my next book Bri-Polar if these injunctions ever lift. Originally written on a bar napkin at Tailgate.)

Un-lubricated

The sun is a lie today.

As I begin to walk,

I feel the cold,

In my prematurely aged face.

The wind finds every crease,

Next to my tired eyes,

On my two pack a day,

Twenty plus wrinkled face.

Teeth peeling layers of skin,

From chapped lips.

It is a dry cold.

Smells like long dead grass,

Car exhaust.

I haven't had a drink yet.

Enter anxiety.

I feel like an unoiled hinge,

squeaking.

Drawing attention to something old,

Dilapidated,

Used,

Inferior,

In a world of new.

My cold red cheeks,

Mask the embarrassment,

The awkwardness,

The poverty of pocket and providence.

Waiting for this bluff to be called.

Nervous sets in as the tab begins to climb.

Calculations and scenario's,

For payment become confused,

As intoxication sets in.

Blood alcohol equilibrium,

Settles my empty stomach,

For the moment.

Its ok the house payment hasn't cleared yet.

If I die tonight I won't have to deal with any of this,

I think as a crack a joke aloud that lights up,

All of the patrons,

Who unknowingly

Are watching a death march

That just need a little

Lubrication