Howard Firkin
Don’t have to drink to stumble down this street;
you trip me up, you stick a cane between
my legs. I fall for you, again I’m seen
on hands and knees where blood and pavement meet.
You leave me as you found me: on my knees.
The need for chemistry. I’m in a hurry.
I choose the camouflage of booze to blur
the outlines, bodies, him and her,
and beat my boxer’s brain into a slurry
and suddenly, I’m not too hard to please.

I leave the safety of the bar too soon.
The hard men mill around, parade their scars.
I look away and look up as the moon
gobs in my face its spittle spray of stars.