Out

There he is, standing on 23rd and Forsythe like a shined apple,
trying his whites on the foo-girls in the beauty salon.

They smile back, knowing where he's going, making marks
on the counter with blue hair gel; six days he's been out.

Got a job and a girl, she's married, but still has time,
still has enough to keep two going, keep two from knowing.

Spends money to see a movie about good-hearted thugs;
watches them hit a bank, toss a quarter to the wino by the door.

He eats his days with a small spoon, takes small bites,
puts the rest in his pocket for the lean times.

In bed at night, he inhales the traffic noise, cat fights,
a momma's voice, little girl's back-sass.

They've got cold wings in jail, wings that beat you even here,
wake you up at night and tell you they'll take you home.