I know when you were born,
what color your eyes are,
where you live,
and don’t get me started
on that lame-ass picture
from three years ago
when you thought it would be cool
to sneer at the DL camera
and wink.

I smell the alcohol on your breath,
in your sweat,
hungover and back
for more.

You drop money at my feet,
cigarettes, Trojans, Valium,
pot, speed, knives, receipts for hamburgers,
good luck charms, girl’s phone numbers,
small talk.

I take most of this
when you’re not looking,
because once you’re in
I have to listen to sob stories
about shitty jobs,
operations on your knee,
drug deals that didn’t go through,
gambles that didn’t pay off,
getting turned away
at the sold out Peaches show
up the street.

Sometimes I watch homeless guys
sneak behind a warehouse
across the road
and pass a crack pipe around,
the bowl glowing a hellish orange.

Sometimes I even give them
the money you drop
to buy more,
because I know you’d never
do anything like that.

Sometimes I watch the hookers,
trying to look like hot ordinary girls
out for a walk
alone,
dangerously high heels
scratching the sidewalk.

Hot ordinary girls don’t walk that slow.

Most of the time I’m watching you,
or your girlfriend’s ass,
knowing she could do better.

A lot better.

Later on,
when you’ve had too many vodka and sodas,
I take your arm
lead you out,
hail a cab,
and send you home.
But I always let your girlfriend stay.

Keith Wood has successfully escaped from Philadelphia and is now living and working in Austin, Texas.  He sends most of his stories and poems to Underground Voices and Cherry Bleeds, and hopes that his mom isn’t reading any of them.