Willie Thompson is passed out,
off the Breakers, a few feet
from the railroad tracks,
wearing powder blue women’s
stretch pants two sizes too small.
He reeks of booze.
His face is pruned.
His eyes are almost swollen shut.
Willie. Time to get up.
He growls, “Leave me be!
Willie. You still tryin’
to drink yourself to death?
He snarls, “It still hasn’t happened yet!”
Well then, it’s time for Detox.
“Don’t you dare.
If you touch me,
I’ll kick your ass!”
Grumpy and I hoist him up,
carrying him at the collar like a rag doll.
“Stop man-handling me!”
Then, help us and walk.
The point is moot.
He’s too drunk to move.
Grumpy and I place him
in the prowler’s cage.
By the time I transport him to Detox,
Willie Thompson’s pissed himself.
Dear RD,
I never am sure how to help a person who cares not to help himself.
So, I suppose this is for a society that still wants to help itself.
Ann T.
Posted by: Ann T. Hathaway | June 09, 2010 at 07:59 AM