Drunk again on pop wine. Sirens blaring in the background, Joyce on TV. And I'm not cold. But it's a cold world, and though most would hide, here I am rattling in the gale waiting to see some one, any one, that I loved and gave my life for to come around and help me.
Mostly it's "get a job, you fuckin' loser," but to deal with what I deal with day to day, you'd be there shivering too. I hear and see things that wouldn't draw your bow of sympathy, I guess, and the dollar store ain't hiring unless you're black or gender queer, and I don't have much a chance anyway.
Man becomes barnacle becomes fish.
And I've made some friends, and no, nobody knows me. The taste of heaven is on my lips, sure, but there's more to getting old than wasting away.