Last Bit of Green

by Steven J. Serafiani

Looked at my hairline in the steamed mirror,
poked and prodded it; recession
had a dream last night that I pulled out
half of my hair and handed it to
my sister.
I was unbalanced,
a night of whisky is a toppling turvy
feels like a vice squeezing everything out
of me.
Drove up to the gas station and bought
a pack of smokes,
this should center,
sat at a red light, lit one, let it dangle in my mouth;
the familiar retina burn,
as I waited impatiently in my jazz haze,
about thirty high school runners passed
my car
pink lungs fresh legs more than an
ounce of happiness and
full heads of hair
they gazelled around the corner out of
view.
Light turned and two blocks up I
pulled up to the bar as
I needed a good watering this morning
lips to beveled, look up at the mirror
below bottles;
I saw the
last bit of my green fade out of view.

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