I need the hole
in your head
to stay open
to the idea
of filling it
with money.

I say we are bottomless
because that's how I feel.

I believe we are separate
and that fortune is moral.

Soft hands toss you drugs
for calming the shakes.

Tough times, I say, for you.
Rough people.

I wish we'd never met.

I'd give anything
to be higher above the city,
on my way to your distance.

We share the same need,
really, a sudden one
to attain,
to acquire
for peace of mind,
just in case.

If I burst at the seams, then,
you can clean it up
and keep the change.
You can put me
back together,
pouring sweat for glue.

I'm poor, too, you see, but
the difference is
you deserve it
for slacking
through life,
whereas I'm lacking
the newness
necessary to
put more space
between us.

Of course, I'll leave
and forget this ever happened,
drunk again on the air.

I'm sure you'll remember me, though,
while going from station to station
and stealing from my waste.

In the pictures of my efforts
look for a hope that I can
soon get up and never come back,
because I believe in more,
life after death, and destiny,
and when I see you, I glimpse
less, death after life,
and the chance
I could somehow be you,
none of which can be true.