Gutter Man

He sang in a slurred tequila pitch.
He blew foghorn whooooos into the empty,
murmured, here’s proof of God—my patron,
my padre, my blue spirit.

I am (mostly) not a thief. I sleep
on the avenues of America. I am face down
in this sweet immoral land.

Oh, sing me a song from glory days—
that brilliant, human time.