Estimating pressure the tips of my fingers
I’m feeling you up, in.
In a pinch, some tender Mary
An inch an hour, two feet a day.
You tell me every band you don’t like
Another cigarette, eight more silver hairs,
Wankers at the funeral luncheon,
When we killed.
Everyone still gets sandwiches,
Because you cut them
On an angle.
And I want to keep walking along beside you on the street,
You teeter on top of the curb.