Mickey Drama's

I saddle myself with thoughts
of not thinking about it,
before I bundle in last season's
uniform, take a few last swigs
of the dawn's dense aroma,
and absently use the back stairs,
forgetting my destination.

My palms part the air
as I depart down the avenue,
beckoning purpose out of graffiti,
conditioning the sidewalk
to carry the weight of my shame.
I check over my shoulder
to make sure I was just there.

I bound along with haste
until I arrive at the cathedral
of the morning, before the floors
have been scuffed and muddied,
and the lobby holds silence dear,
except those at the judicial counter,
listing off the articles of the feast.
I limp home on nail-board feet,

reconvening with my darling thoughts.
They flock to me, watching with
pearly eyes as steam ascends
from a paper bag, seeing what
I am too thoughtless to see,
which is that once again my treasure,
where I would go anywhere for,
by morning will have turned to shit.