He sits on a wooden bench in the park
And counts his out-lived minutes on a metaphorical watch
While he eats his lunch fresh from the trash can:
Pale green lettuce, a gritty tomato, and slick turkey
On hard toasted rye bread. The molding Swiss cheese sits at his side.
His watch ticks loudly—or rather,
The morning rhythmic beat of alcohol ticks loudly on his brain
And since no one is close enough to listen,
He offers up a toast to a tiny cratered moon
Intruding on the sun’s day.