Kitchen stash in a cornmeal can,
bedroom stash in a cashew can,
Yes on his boombox,
he sees all good people
turn their heads. Not satisfied,
he rolls a new friend and burns some time.
The rent is due, his plumbing stinks,
his cat’s gone missing and he’s selling
his Dave Mathews CDs on Ebay.
The pizza from last week looked iffy,
but he isn’t feeling too bad after eating it;
just a little bloating.
Sometime, he knows, he’ll have to
clean-up his act, clear-up his life.
He’s 43, hasn’t had a real job for five years,
his girlfriends keep leaving, and shit, how
bad must you be for your cat to decide to bolt?
Damn thing ate better somedays than he did!
Sits. Thinks. Starship Trooper, go sailing
on high. Bye.
Wakes up to the doorbell, then the pounding.
Damn landlady, he told her his check comes—
It’s not her. It’s his dad, two ex-girlfriends,
some priest or pastor-guy. And the cat.
“You need to grow up sometime.”
“Intervention.” “For your Own Good.”
“Take the pamphlet.” “Get a hold of yourself.”
“Meow.” “Sobriety is a choice.” “12-step program.”
“I can SMELL the smoke!” “Denial is a choice.”
“Meow.”
An ex takes his cat, the pastor keeps using words
you’d expect a pastor to use. Dad goes away shaking his head
and the less-hot ex drives him to the rehab center.
A month later he’s back home, eviction notice on the door.
The ex says no and drives off. Dad says no and hangs up.
The hotter ex must’ve changed her number, and his bank account is empty..
Sometimes it doesn’t pay to get straight.
Michael A. Griffith’s poems and other writings have appeared in many print and online publications. His chapbooks Bloodline (The Blue Nib) and Exposed (Soma Publications and Hidden Constellation Press) were released in fall 2018. He was nominated for the Pushcart Prize for poetry in October.
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