Unhappy
Way in back a voice sings
a dead man's voice unhappy rings
the man walks on smelling
of nicotine and sadness too
poverty dings in every step
his boots need fixing
Sitting amongst strangers moving
forward the jerk and smooth glide
like a new lover
the bus hums but is cold with
winter rain in my hair drying out
the bleach of summer
You are here the moment only
asleep I can't reach you
away the phone's no justice
done to the depth of your grey eyes.
Asleep I can't reach you
though tempted and tried to wake you
from that which into which you've escaped
I ache and rearrange things poetically
awake-you lie like the dead.
Loneliness and insobriety
take a long walk in the misery
of what I make of it knowing full well
what comes of it I live on
damned by the alternative.