My jerking right leg
constructs an awful bad beat
devoid of all rhythm.

Mister stumble man
wobbles down the street, staring
blank into windows.

Tiny pineapple
chunks float in sweetened liquid.
How does this taste good?

Disturbing daylight
sneaks ghostly gray images
through my closed eyelids.

He wears a black shirt
printed by the alderman.
It makes him feel big.

Trained bald eagles fly
circles around their trainers.
Mighty impressive.

The small wrestling ring
sits empty in the gravel.
No more luchadores.

Streaks of water dry
into unsightly patterns
all over the hood.

Chatter fills the car
all along the short drive home.
Edgewise words? Um, no.

Sore shoulder muscles
clench together to protest
years of foul abuse.