947: Evening, '74
"Evening, '74"
William Aberg
A friend once asked me to split
his tooth with a hammer and flathead
screwdriver so he could con a doctor
with night hours for a script of morphine.
I didn't have the stomach
and refused: his frail, peroxide
girlfriend scowled at me as she picked
up the tools and halved his molar to the gums.
They're nuts, I thought. Half the night
they went from clinic to hospital, simply
to return, nodding and triumphant,
to burn more holds in the couch
with their Marlboros. This
was an early year, before
I knew the line between desire and need.
This week is themed!
William Aberg
A friend once asked me to split
his tooth with a hammer and flathead
screwdriver so he could con a doctor
with night hours for a script of morphine.
I didn't have the stomach
and refused: his frail, peroxide
girlfriend scowled at me as she picked
up the tools and halved his molar to the gums.
They're nuts, I thought. Half the night
they went from clinic to hospital, simply
to return, nodding and triumphant,
to burn more holds in the couch
with their Marlboros. This
was an early year, before
I knew the line between desire and need.
This week is themed!