Trucks

Every morning fighting through a coma
Each affliction carries its misnomer
Trucks roll loud into the port
They go where I could never know
My toes are freezing
The cold cuts through the Persian rug I’ve stolen, dad thinks that I’ve borrowed
He gives more than I can pay back
22, I’ll never pay it back
Ashtray sitting on the table filled with dead moths
Floating in the rainwater with pill bags
It’s winter south of the river without a job
And I don’t see it getting any better
Empty bottles, if not for the burnt butts
Falling over, the wind in from the coast cuts
Hard and sharp, messes up my hair
Leaves fall peppering the air
Ashtray sitting on the table filled with dead moths
Floating in the rainwater with pill bags
It’s winter south of the river without a job
And I don’t see it getting any better