Twelfth Street Blues

your chin reminds me

of last night’s

drunk breakfast meal

biscuits

and gray hearted

gray smeared gravy.

you may not

be the Picasso of perfection,

the carbon copy

of a Michelangelo

celestial acid trip

on a foreign

chapel ceiling

or the full figured

ghost of Marilyn Monroe

painted by

Andy Warhol

but

your meaty chin

beckons anyway

in my drunken

bones

and blood veined

tear stained

eyes

for five

minutes

straight

and that’s enough

to make

both of us come

and awake

in the

fiery sunrise

to no memory

of it all.