Butch Deadmarsh

He was born tired and his head pressed
Hard against the concrete dead-end walls
Of mindless work.
His toothless grin; an apt title to his ignorance
And overly anxious laughter;
the sound of barricaded elephants
On their last leg.
No more than fifty dollars to his name
And a line of past dues and unsettled debts.
He sleeps, and eats, and drinks
And sings from a mouth clamped;
Emptied and topped off then emptied again,
Pouring his wretched breath onto those in his company.
The seat in the bar where he sits
Every Saturday, polishing the backside
Of the stool,
Is where he drinks a pint, till his memory
Drowns in a slew of senseless mourning,
Sip after sip.