Poem: Jimmy Talking to His Barber

So there I am on that little couch in the living room
sleeping one off. You know, another cheap-beer hangover
after a night of bullshitting in Alice’s kitchen
about how I was once a prison guard
and or maybe I told her I was a choreographer.
Who the fuck remembers.

Anyway, my point is next morning I’m laying there
stiller than the corpse will be at my wake
but getting a wicked I-have-to-piss feeling
wondering if I can get her to scramble me up a plate of eggs
when she feeds the dog.

No, no, no. I’m telling you
she feeds the dog eggs when she’s out of dog food.
Spaghetti when she’s out of eggs.
It’s all free shit - some federal assistance program.
The dog don’t seem to give a fuck.

So the front door opens and in comes this totally uptight chick
who just stands there staring at me.

She ain’t ugly but’s wearing way too much goddamn pink for
someone standing that still. She’s just gaping at me.
I’m thinking sweetie, you need to loosen up.
Of course I ain’t in any sort of shape to help her out
so I just lay there squinting back at her
when I figure out it’s the old bitch’s granddaughter
there to drive her to Social Security.

I sort of nod at her but I don’t know if my head actually moved.
She goes ass-in-the-air-strutting into the kitchen. A scary pink blur.
And I can already hear the first thing out of her mouth
once she gets grandma seat-belted in and pulls away from the curb:
“What the fuck’s with the midget passed out on the sofa?”

Well she don’t say fuck,
Just what about the midget.
Like I’m weirder than cooking the fucking dog spaghetti.