Severance Pay
I'll probably touch this up in a little bit, but I really like it so far. Part of my attempts to keep writing.
Severance Pay A battalion of ghosts look over his shoulder, A thousand unsolved murders, Lined up in rank and in file.
As he quietly separates all his quarters, Some sort of mighty fortune, Earned on foreign soil.
There are holes in his jacket pockets, so instead, He'll just use an old tin cup, In his lap on the bus.
On the Fourth of July, they call him "fucking family," But this month is December, He's just another bum.
The ones that stare at him hurt less than those who don't, If one should spare a smile, He might not feel alone.
He piles his quarters on the counter at the cafe, He just wants a cup of coffee And today's New York Times.
"I'm sorry sir, but you're fifty cents short today," Says the doe-eyed barista, A fake smile on her face.
All his forgotten friends look over his shoulder, And he can't keep from thinking, Maybe he should join them.
Then he wouldn't be alone.
