there is a four-wheeler wheel
rolling down the dirty hill,
while I write poems
about why I am in this place
in the first fucking place.
it ain't the suburbs
and it ain't the shore,
and the only thing
it makes me think
is I want more.
the meth addict
across the street
is less than
meets the eye
as she refuses to cry.
the couch on which
I am crashing
has seen better days
just as I have
seen better sun rays.
the humidity is horrible,
making me want to run
to California
as fast as I can,
put my toes in Pacific sand.
in Florida
to commune
with the dead,
at least that's what
the ghost said.