Outside the Methadone Clinic

She won’t make it today; she knows
but still scratches in the console
for quarters

backhands the little b***h
in the backseat. Her buckle won’t
come loose.

Death, vending loosies
in the entrance says, babe
a dime’ll do

I didn’t make it today neither,
and then hobbles over to the exit
and the crowds pass.

Getting sick, she watches him
getting sick, and the snug rest
calmly counting bus change.