all the good guys
All the good guys are gone.
No one is left but the greedy and the lazy
and my own type, a combination of the two.
A crowd of sky gazers or pavement watchers,
they miss the faces of the other losers.
The cups on the dresser are ready for tea,
their mothers and wives will soon be home
while these boys wait,
their mouths are fouled with alcohol,
their brains, my brains, are soiled
with endless stupifying years.
For dinner we eat human hands and grass
washed down with disinfectant
and fall back on the sofa staring at nothing.
© John Close