in undershirt (stained, of
course) (and with cigarette
holes)
shoes off
beerbottle in hand
trying to shake off a
difficult night, say with a
woman still around
walking the floor
complaining about this and
that,
and I’d work up a
belch and say, ‘HEY, YOU DON’T
LIKE IT? THEN GET YOUR ASS
OUT OF HERE!’
I really loved myself, I
really loved my slob-
self, and
they seemed to also:
always leaving
but almost
always
coming
back.