I always thought we belonged in some gutter –
Trading punches and clinking bottles.
Little vessels of strawberry wine. Or maybe something peach flavored.
Something breezy to kill the sting of the harder stuff.
Remember that time the bus driver didn’t let me on?
Said the Greyhound was no place for drunkards.
That was Memphis.
She hated my face, my stale smile.
She said it made her miserable.
More miserable than the smell of the river.