A poem about time

After the world has hung me out

like limp socks in the breeze,

all of my holes plain to see

like sad badges of honor,

I retreat to quietly lick my wounds

in a dark corner beneath the radar,

a shadow’s shadow, eyes turned down,

hands clutching a pint of something.

You needn’t go out of your way

twisting your excuse for a

face into a frown, the tangerine sun

rising iconically behind your saintly head,

I'm doing nothing which millions of

grey suits aren't doing right now

in the noble city of Tokyo and countless

other places in distant time zones.