Don’t Sir Me

Don’t Sir Me

Gut hanging heavy and the gray is colonizing what was brown,
holes wore through the boxer shorts from years of breaking down.
Mirror in the bathroom tells a chapter I don’t need narrated,
wrinkles mapping every hit and every morning I’ve debated.

Walking down the sidewalk and these feet are raising grievances,
used to eat the pavement whole, now it extracts its revenues.
Toothache from the grind of every late and horizontal night,
clock is accelerating and the end is burning bright.

Bartender pours the bourbon and the ice goes thin and slow,
nothing locks together like it used to and I don’t know which way to go.
Once a man with reasons, now just a pair of tired eyes,
youth slipped out the exit wearing somebody else’s disguise.

Every wrinkle is a story with a premium I can’t sell,
every morning just another round inside a reconfigured hell.
Don’t sir me–don’t remind me of the highway that I’ve run,
just pour another double and we’ll call this evening done.