Cashed

Cashed

Shot after shot, kicking the juke box.
Pushing tickets for his midnight ritual.
Chain-smoke a rhythm. The setting sun scrawls
his name on every basement ceiling.
He goes down to one lane in his brain,
left with white noise, ears ringing, the radar
beeping, the quiet piercing his soul.

He spits sand. His tongue always tied
to a piano that’s dropped from the fifth
story. He’s crawling through the wasteland.
The diamonds they stuck on his fingers
can’t be removed at the pawn shop.
He can’t even buy a noose and the low
fucking sun keeps punching him in his bloodshot
eyes. His hands stuffed into empty pockets,
walking down the crooked path, going too fast.

He smashes through the barroom door
in a fountain of dust. Razor blade lyrics
lost in a haystack, too dicey to paw through,
cigarettes butts flicked into the crowd.
Mariachi horns blow tenderly as the roses
fall all the way down to his dirty boots.