Drunken Poem

This is some ennui
or whatever
you can’t put your finger on.
You walk down the road,
but nothing welcomes you
only the chilly gusts
& faces that look the other way.
Coffee wouldn’t rub the sleep
off your eyes.
Bread crumbles
like your knees.
What the hell is this feeling
that even a line or two
fail to get you over unease?
Even lotto seems to snigger.
Yes, the mornings-after
don’t give you the thrill,
only the strange feeling
you’ve got to be thankful
you’re alive & kicking.

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