San Diego Reader

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:

“Ooooohhh!”

“Damn!!”

“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.