Untitled #74

Sometimes on Friday I dream up
how easily I could become a cokehead.
Cutting lines with my friends razorblade,
I would never keep my own in case of
really horrible binge nights. An ornate mirror
would sit majestically in the middle of an
imaginary French coffee table that my parents
got me at some antique barn in Indiana.
People would beg to do lines next to my gold
records and ’72 Telecaster Custom.
“Just one more before I drive him,” my
girlfriend would say, but I wouldn’t let her.
Even cokeheads have limits.
Maybe I would be involved in some type of
Eastern European supply chain that decided it
was easier to move the dust in through airports
in Kansas, cause who’d expect that.
“Stuff’s good this month,” I’d snipe at the
Mafioso who switched bags. Only to settle
back in close to my Parisian throne.
Sometimes on Friday I dream of being
a cocaine addict, only to realize that it’s
Saturday morning and I’m too broke
to even afford prescription meds.