by Gerald Arthur Moore
Like university freshmen,
leaning from car windows,
his roses – the ones he couldn’t peddle
last night in the barrooms,
looked defeated, facing the floor
with their drooping melancholy.
But his flower-selling days were over now –
His liver had surrendered.
This Gottingen Street boarding room was a tin-can graveyard,
like an anarchistic Warhol painting –
in the smoldering murk of Campbell’s Soup ashtrays.
A dancing Holstein sleeping bag
was strangling a Gonorrhea stained mattress.
His tuxedo jacket had given up;
its arms folded in resignation on the floor,
as if to say, my dance card’s full daddy,
find me another job.
He took a slug from a naked silver beaker,
stripped from the fascist paper label,
and took a hot whiskey shit.
He used a chipped enamel pot to top-up
the holding tank for a rare flush –
Pondered a shave, and the update of his resume.