The handsome man in the mirror tells me he needs a drink and a couple drags on a two dollar cigar.
He says I'm a slacker. He says I'm nothing like god, nothing like my father, nothing like Pollack Poe or Payne.
He says I should get more sleep. I look like hell.
And I sure as shit should get back to work.
"Cheers old man" he says as he takes a swig of scotch, and I take another left hook to the ego.
He tells me to get out of the bathroom
and get my fuckshift life back on track
Back?
Implying that it ever was?
But the sad truth is
I'm out of scotch
and I refuse to smoke cigars without my coat.
Unseasonable October warmth.
Unwelcome sweltering.
Sweltering unwelcome.
