State Street 3 a.m.

There are times when I feel all alone in the world.
Times when the dog won’t look my direction
and even the whores ignore the money hanging from my pockets.
I look to the sky and wonder if anyone is watching from above.
Wondering if anyone really gives a shit about my life.
I don’t even know if I really give a shit about my life.
The wino in the gutter calls up to Heaven
some rambling, non-sensical plea for help
and he waits, albeit impatiently, for an answer.
My favorite bartender, Lonnie ignores me
the way the sky ignores the bum.
No drinks on credit.
Not even one for ol’ times sake,
but, the skies open up on the wino
pissing on him.
That’s his answer.
(at least he got an answer).

Its not that being alone is a bad thing
except for the memory of not being alone.
I remember friends gathered at my elbow listening to my stories,
beer flowing like a goddamn river in flood.
I don’t look to the sky then; I don’t look nowhere.
I don’t question my sanity or wonder why I have friends.
I just drink the beer and laugh at my own jokes
and I don’t even notice if no one is laughing with me.
Then somedays I’m that wino in the gutter
calling up to an empty sky for an answer that won’t come.
I’m looking for a warm body to sleep next to
or a good friend to share a joke with
better yet a bartender to buy me a shot.
I can’t even get an echo to my belch
in the pisser.
The world might open up
and swallow me whole.
No one would know.
Not the bartender.
Not the hookers.
And the sky wouldn’t even piss
on my absence.
(that’s my fucking answer).