Seven of Cups
They were Georgia boots,
Comfort Core.
No comfort left in that label now.
The soles gone to hell,
inlay peeled like burnt skin
on a summer drunk.
He used to wear 'em
to the docks—
not for the job
but to look like he had one.
Said the boots gave him posture
even when he had no spine.
The bench was his confessional.
"Seven cups," he muttered once,
“they all looked good
in the morning fog."
Money.
A woman who called him “baby.”
A trailer with a flag and a fridge
full of cheap beer.
A crappy transistor radio
always tuned to the same static.
He liked the noise more than silence—
said silence reminded him
of his old man’s fists
and the day he slammed the door
and never came back.
She came like the others—
eyes like storm warnings,
barefoot in winter,
mouth full of someone else’s songs.
He loved her the way
you love a fire:
too close,
too long,
burned down to bone.
Every choice a ghost
that kissed his cheek
and walked off with his wallet.
He died right there,
on the bench that knew his weight,
where the pigeons ignored him
and the cops didn’t bother.
Boots side by side,
one insole flopped out
like a tired tongue.
A half-smoked cigarette still warm
in the groove of the slats.
No note. No name.
Just a man who picked
the wrong cup
too many times.
Portland, Maine
Boho Dreams of Space and Time 