Franklin Street

Oh, to be the most unseen but visible entity on good ol' Franklin Street-
Averted eyes, tight-lipped smiles, worry etched in the wrinkles of clenched
Then unclenched hands.
But thank God for the weekends-
There isn't much else to thank Him for.
On my favorite days- those weekend days-
Intoxication coaxes conversation.
Them college kids with their loose smiles and seltzers shoved deep down their waistbands-
Girls scurry past thinking I'm trying to snag a peak under their short skirts,
But the boys hand me their solo cups just before they enter the bar.
"Here you go man.
You need it more than I do."
It's the booze that got me here.
Anyway, that's what they all think.
I dump the booze, keep the cup.
Red was always my favorite color,
But who would ever get to know me well enough to ask?
Red has always been my favorite color-
Red like my momma's cherry pie,
Red like the pews in church.
On God's day when God used to love me
though apparently, he now does not,
I wouldn't think of good ol' Franklin Street,
Or my solo cups,
Or my weekend addiction,
Or my lack of addiction thereof,
Or being a real-life human being,
Or goddammit, not feeling like one at all.
I would think of the tight collar of my button-up-
Clean, crisp, but uncomfortable as hell.
I would think of Hell too.
Look where that got me.