Critics

On
the street,
Dead-Elvis, the poet and his shoeshine-wife Dirty
meet Jack.

Off
they go.
They steal some instant coffee and
head to Jack's flat.

The coffee is good and warm;
it tastes like shit – nothing like coffee.
They drink it anyway and talk
about how jaded they are,
how they only want each other out of boredom.
But, they don't... They just sit there

bored,
jaded, expecting and doing nothing.
They each think that the other has the stuff so
they don't mention it.
That would be bad junky etiquette.

Waiting, simple hints, more crappy coffee.

They all knew they were waiting for the same things to change,
for sobriety to be erased by narcotic affection,
for the other to offer it up first.

It's good to be thrifty with prices these days.

Today, Jack wouldn't wax.