I am an addict of old habits
but
it's the urban suicide, the urban boredom
and the cold shoulder of the bureau of this and that,
it kills, along with the heat of the asphalt
and the puffs of factory clouds.
It got under my skin and then
into the blood stream,
until I was no longer…

...all that I am composed of
she had to slowly watch decompose.
She twitch-twitched then turned away.

If it weren't for her,
I'd be drugged out, zoned out,
zombie-like sprawled out
with Lays chips all over the floor
and cheap beer stains on the couch,
by now.

By now I would be sitting in a
pest infested cell of spit,
reeking of vomit and piss.

If it weren't for her scolding me raw,
kicking me out of the apartment,
my rut, to go out and look for a job,
I would end up
a statistic reclining against
the wall,
with my eyes resigned,
but begging for change
or for a solar eclipse
or a meteor shower,
an earthquake, an alien sighting
or for the Second Coming,
anything but
decaying like
this.