Grocery Beads

I hobble sane as the whiskey
crowd, same grey sweatshirt, same
ankle, steady as a bent spoke
on a balloon tired Schwinn.

The maritime fog factors
in and out of our bones.
What's common is hand rolled
and set in folding chairs.
If you manage a dog and a cane,
you manage well.
Solitude is less than

I talk to a level head
in a grease cap, glossing over
the trailer park and untied slippers,
maybe there's a papa praying
behind the paper window
curtains, maybe not,
wives not always promised,
or kept.

A commerce
of counting bottle pennies
off a wizened and brittle palm
puts my hand in the stake
of inebriation, the grace of God
ought to do more than put
another pint on the tab.
Will SchmitComment