poem: stumbling ’round for a reason to be

stumbling ’round for a reason to be
my wobbly ankle abhors gravity
racing the clock, the pacing a block
drifting away from the culture we talk

slurping up junk good and publishers’ pudding
dreaming of doing those drugs that I shouldn’t
float away, wrapped in the night’s cool embrace
please tell me true: is there egg on my face?

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