Last joint

A last joint by the river, by the brown water, the city gossip. I woke up feeling like a failure, but I steal a moment of serenity, a stranger’s footsteps, I drink my Tennessee whiskey. At home all day and night I hear the planes, and the sound of their engines is like tunes in my ears. Sometimes there’s not a soul to be had in Flockhart reserve. I do get lonely and poetry keeps me company. A white concrete tower in the distance, a ten minute walk to the Terminus Hotel. That’s how I like my marijuana, on the go. At MK media office, I’m just looking at the picture, two guys in suits and a dog.