He takes one long haul and examines the plastic pharmacy bottle in his hand
There's still a single codeine inside, so the eminent bottle half full of Tennessee sour mash swirls the ground in a concentric circle
Some serpent slips past his mind's eye like a single frame flash edited from a single thought film
The valley of the spirit clouds their eyes
The whiskey has kept thе inner codeine out, and again hе drinks
Feels the burning in his belly
He keeps the sole parking meter that marks the passing of the time he spends in anyone's face
He has a lot of unpaid tickets framed on his wall
An occasional cough like the chiming of a grandfather clock or an old branch breaking in the high wind
Old friend codeine can only do so much

He hears that strangled laughter, not like the belly laughs that the kids bring, going by in their irreverent youth
His brain doesn't remember what his body and spirit do
Another swig, and the container is tossed to the tabernacle trash can
He takes out his copy of Patti Smith's "Babel"
He'd tear out a page and eat it, but he's not that goddamn cool
He reads one line instead
Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock
Fuck the clock