A scurvy laugh.
Eviction one was from the crib.
Mama called my bluff.
Tonight, in the roundabout,
showing full ass,
leaning hard against these other shoved-ashore mutineers,
who burn tatters of sails till their faces burst flame into his,
the dug up, treasureless sky nearly but not really gone enough to sleep,
he hunts the blacktop’s thin scatter of past blizzard’s
sand for that lost
last drop, not
hearing over the traffic how it rattles deep
in the hull of the bottle in his hand.

Poetry by Pete Miller

Photography 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.

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