Drunk PIrate (Photo credit: OpenThreads)
This is a poem I wrote at the height of the Occupy Wall Street movement in 2011.
To listen to my first reading on SoundCloud—-> <click here>
spare some change
wish i had a drink right now…
seems like a good spot,
30,000 people crowded into a small square,
they got tents and heaters and oh God! all that food.
i get my plastic cup and sign out of my shopping cart
(i di’n’t steal it, a friend gave it to me, yeah)
it’s cold out here and i wish i had a drink right now…
“can you spare some change?” i say to the empty suit
trying so hard not to look my way,
you never know, once one of these empty suits
dropped a twenty in my cup.
i remember back before i lived under the overpass,
a long time ago, or so it seems,
on some goddamned desert, tanks burning in the sun,
we took a grenade and i shit my pants.
i’d shit my pants right now for a drink…
lots of signs being carried round this place,
will anybody see mine?
a bottle of wine is only $3.68 with tax
and i have a $1.42
but the Lord will provide.
that long-haired man has a five in his hand,
don’t look him in the eye,
don’t look him in the eye.
he doesn’t see me and walks past.
a couple quarters from some sweet young thing!
i didn’t even see her,
don’t look her in the eye,
don’t look her in the eye.
“thank you!” i mumble.
i’ll just push my cart to where the food is,
maybe somebody will see my sign,
God, i need a drink…
some young dude leaves a sandwich at my feet,
i knew it, the Lord does provide.
in high school, i was voted class optimist,
it serves me well right now, just about right now.
some odd change and a couple ones from a kind soul.
“buy yourself something to eat” they say.
don’t look them in the eye,
don’t look them in the eye.
“thanks!” (“don’t tell me how to spend my money!” i think to myself)
there’s a liquor store near the overpass,
i can go back home to my warm spot with my bottle
(if the cops haven’t taken down my boxes)
things don’t change much under the overpass.
i push my little world on up the street.
the Lord will provide, it’s a good day to be alive.
Agnew T. Pickens
URR 11.15.20..11
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