I feel like the rust and squeal of an old
bike tire, left outside to be rained on,
peeking its spokes out of tall tall weeds.

I am sometimes sick of drinking, looking,
and also being me.
I let my nails grow long. I let my hair grow long.
I think it's time to cut them both.

I feel sad to say it every single time I do, but I
am hating New York today. I am hating New
York today, I hated New York last week and
I will probably hate it tomorrow.

It always feels like time to leave, but how does
one fly the coop scot-free?
And really the more I think, it never feels like time.

Working always leaves me no time to consider future mes.