Under whisky, he forgets life expectancy,
itches for those knockoff
pills that arrive with a discount code,
some octogenarian dating site.
This lady’s dentures click
the dark fable of someone else’s mouth.
Only 64, she oozes
her tease, Make you
feel 78.
His railroad check soon mists.
The landlord’s knocks,
holstered like it’s
Waco. At the Mission now
he excites a prickling pity from a worker, who,
just 22, can’t suspect he’s
only one handful
of her bra
away from a permanent ban
and bar, from begging
time on the back porch
of his stepdaughter
who, still bearing a heart
bored clear through,
points to the doghouse.

Poetry by Pete Miller

Photograph by Adam Strong

Pete Miller is the author of the chapbook Born Soap (H_NGM_N). A graduate of Arizona State University’s MFA program, he lives in Omaha, Nebraska where he works in homeless services. He co-edits the online poetry journal A Dozen Nothing.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s