Sinners Dinner

Eating old leaves of lettuce
(an orange tint around the edges)
sopping with a bitter vinaigrette.
I sit and I salivate at the sins
that form on my tongue.

The drinks,
always the drinks,
the drinks that pass the time,
that harvest danger,
the drinks that
take my morals,
lick my bones clean of salvation.

And the women,
like cancer to me,
sitting on my lap,
hands down my pants,
or on the corner of the street,
buying cheap booze on a Wednesday,
The women.
I wanted them all.
The ones who weren’t whole
and needed a fucker like me
to make them feel better.

They all said I’m a good one,
I guess I worked hard.
And then I’d drink
and I’d yell
and she’d cry
and she’d leave.
Had to get used to them
being jealous
of the vodka.

Now it’s just me
and my sin
and my salad.


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