Your vest and socks now cling to you
like a legion of leeches.
The bruises on your face the only story
you cannot manipulate.
Your mouth is a graveyard,
yellow tombstones tumbling over each other.
You the once loquacious philosopher, street guru
no longer speak for silence is refuge from self embarrassment.
If you could be embarrassed.
Regiments of beer cans now protect you.
Their loyalty cannot be questioned unlike those you have
Where did it all go wrong? I never hear you say.
When did you reject the possibility of change
and settle for the satisfaction of incremental self destruction.
But I must give you some credit father,
of all your failed convictions only one appears still true for you
son, committing suicide is selfish.