Letter
Mama, I'm awful tired
and I feel like coming home
to eavesdrop on the ocean
and spit into the foam.
I talk to people on busses,
spend all my tips on books,
tell lies to good looking customers
and cheer for all the crooks.
I listen to jazz all evening,
I forget to sleep or eat.
There's a brown dog from the junkyard
who attacks me on the street.
My friends aren't.
My lover doesn't.
My work is.
My party wasn't.
Out here in the heartland
even the cows are bored,
and I'd commit hara-kiri
if I could afford the sword.
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