7 a.m., Dec. 18
I’m on my back in the middle of the street.
I can smell the shit on the asphalt.
My palm feels raw as a shredded radish;
The asphalt shit is ground into my blood, I think,
& it will give me a disease like Ebola by morning.
I hear the onlookers review my tumble:
“That boy went DOWN!!!”
I can’t say I disagree & I pop up to my feet
& take a bow like I’m performing for the Queen,
When in reality my audience are the homeless,
The addled & the big blonde lesbian
Who checks ID’s outside the door of the pot shop.
Next time I won’t try to run across Mission with my bum foot.
Next time I’ll park on 9th like I normally do,
Then use the crosswalk in its legally prescribed manner.
But maybe by then the Feds will raid the shop,
Close it up & say no more pot for you losers,
Go get drunk instead, like real Americans.