Nepo babies will never get it—
while they trained in ivy-clad halls,
I was stealing bites off half-eaten plates
beside the steam and stink of a dish pit.
I don’t have rizz,
just tattoos and a bartender’s past,
mentally unstable with a heavy pour,
knowing when to cut someone off but never myself.
Thought cancer might earn me some attention—
a little extra softness, maybe a free drink.
But nah, the world keeps moving,
while I’m kicking death down the street like a crushed can.
You're paying that dentist a fortune,
so go ahead and fart in the chair—
make it worth it.
NYC bodegas selling loosey eggs,
while I’m over here losing platelets,
watching my body barter with survival
like it’s just another bad deal.
But whatever, we’re all just pusbags anyway.
I’m a pusbag,
you’re a pusbag,
the bodega guy, the chemo nurse,
the dude in the elevator, the lady in the lot—
all just sacks of skin, leaking, waiting,
wondering who gets to rot first.