Time For A Shaved Head

About two months ago I reached a breaking point
and left my job while walking to Starbucks with my boss,
and a week later

I was in South Dakota, sleeping in a tent in the Black Hills,
in a holler where General Custer once slept, nestled
between pines.

The old job was in New York City, working on contracts with
Goldman Sachs and hedge funds, making a bunch of dirty money.

Now I work the closing shift at a local coffee shop.

The pay isn’t so good.

But tonight I made a bunch of cash in tips and talked
to three long-time-no-see friends, and mopped floors

and scrubbed shit off of a toilet seat, and scrubbed
red velvet truffle cake out the stone floor with a broken
mop head, and drank an employee-discounted whiskey,
and turned up the Nirvana song, thinking about my dog.

By the time I arrived home I had been drinking coffee
for five hours and hadn’t had anything to eat in ten.

Soon it’s four in the morning and I have written four
poems. Soon I will become dizzy and quit.

Outside the window, there are stars, clear.

The moon is stuck between liquid crystals,
sapphire drowning a sea of mud.


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