Unfortunately for me

I opened the door when I did,

and you were passing by,

age 45, dressed like a kid.


A man-bun on top,

fifth drink in your mitt,

roaming the halls,

bumming cigarettes.


Just out to walk the dog,

I politely nod.

You stagger toward me,

smelling rather odd.


“Hey, give me a ride,

I need to get to the store.”

But I know you’re the kind

who always wants more.


A dollar, an open tab,

an uneasy ear to bend.

It’ll never seem to stop,

soon you’ll call me your friend.


Until the well runs dry,

‘cause I know you’ll never be,

I try to laugh and get away,

but now you follow me.


Your complaints begin and end

with stories about your old lady.

You only stop to stare down a car,

like some fuck who’s half plum crazy.


“I trust no one,” you say with a glare,

pulling out a pocket knife.

I half hope the guy comes at you

just so I can get back inside.


And then comes my savior,

a poor sap with a large snout,

who happens upon us,

giving me an out.


As I roll away

out of your rank odor,

I hear you tell big nose,

“Hey, take me to the store!”