Impotency
Mark Coleman
He was an old timer. Sold everything but his belt. Which, when he wasn’t tied off, served as a sort of bandolier for syringes from the needle program. Constantly making off with unattended patio spoons. Which he’d reuse at the soup kitchen.
Hocking silver every which way. To be melted into The Man’s chalice or the beggars’ teeth. Every time that he tried for the wagon; it was at capacity. So he’d just slink down in its shadow, and have himself a nod.
Cold turkey means cold sweats. Counting sheep with fangs. Sawing logs full of splinters. They hadn’t bothered to save him a dream of the kind that the women love to steal. Not even a red light coupon remained.
Curled down beneath a dumpster quilt. Imagining that it was something more human. The bugs running over him, thinking that it was a race. Sad truth is, even with insecticide, you can’t kill what’s not there. Until the methadone clinic opened, he’d have to do without so much as a cigarette butt in a cup of coffee.
