Old Man likes the feel of it. Starts
beer and a zest for salt. Likes tall
structures but not for the hurt of it.
So much one can do to a night on
the street. Cleave and cleave just
for the bliss of it; for a sandwich
of heart. Colonizing class makes
economy of status. “Quo this,”
it might say, if it were up to it.
Old Man’s not sure if eleven
or ten but is going to a pick-
me-up. To talk and to talk.
Life’s so like lost lust in
warp and feel. Old M
is attempting like
hell to avoid it,
but here
it is.
