Looking up at the steep hill
A Sisyphus in training.
My feet hurt as soon as they hit the warming concrete
And I want to go down, to go down down down.
Then I spy the drunks on the stoop
They don’t seem to share my hurt.
Drinks in hand,
They sing out of key songs of their yesterdays
Always ending with a hug and a smile.
I imagine Bukowski sitting there with John Fante,
Gritty grime and glamour.
They are the carefree souls I will never be,
Living life in forty ounce segments
Forgetting more than I have ever known.
They beckon to me
Tell me to join them on the stoop
But I pull up my hood,
Cut them out of my field of vision,
Press PLAY on the Walkman
And let Erik Satie guide me home.