I never intend to insult or harm
anybody when I’m drunk in this
half-lit slum-palace, but when my
space is invaded, I’m like a wolverine
in an igloo: that frenetic guy banging
on the door better not offer me his sales
spiel—much less a high five. Is it
Clyde, the dope-dealer clown again?
Well, I’m naked now, my teeth
are punks, and I have to roll pennies
for some kerosene before nightfall.
He’d better split and take that poison
back to his squat so I can drape towels
around my chest and waist.
What’s he and his blue bandanna want,
a slurred invitation to leave? It’s Ohio,
the factories are empty, and I’m
drinking the last bottle of Bordeaux.
My home’s not a way station for him
\or his enemies. The harbor’s north,
so he’d better not hamper my hygiene!