Bobby stares at
the steering wheel.
Traffic jam. His hands are wet.
What he’s been is now surreal.
Any orphan needs a pet.
Bobby’s got his head in clouds,
Too much dope is not too much,
Eyes are red, as blunts are loud.
Orphans crave a special touch.
Autumn leaves are falling slowly,
Stars explode so fast in
Bobby’s high and Bobby’s lonely:
The little boy within still cries.
Then he gets out of his Chevy.
Walks for miles. Gets out of breath.
Pistols seem extremely heavy
When you plot your sudden death.