The Stick
There are re-tightened circles
within my bind – my condition
of well-rounded concentric ripples
Feel them grip – feel with me
He laughs at my stick and walk
because he’s so very drunk
before an unequal fill of booze
ferments inside my empty gut
thickly – as if a dreadful influenza
but none of those highbrow fevers
Like when your own infected body
had been rammed flat by it
Now you expect me
to lift myself up from this floor –
out of spilt beer – for inspections
and more qualified interventions
all the while our state and yourself
still owe me back payments
for every too-long worked day –
which weigh on me as tired eye tolls
For those – and your destructive love –
put down a deposit to secure my loss
Pay out against my final demand
for a resilient stick to abet my steps