Half The Man I Used To Be

Photo by Steve Long on Unsplash

At the corner of the street, it’s me. Amputated in half.
Parked bottom on skateboard, chugging local beer.
Ownerless dogs are sniffing for risky owned foods.
Supermarket entrance, inhospitable cheap lights.
Buzzing humans, fashionable masks, hollow looks.
We nod heads around here, not an accent, not a hint.
Bunch of nobodies. I groove on this way. Awkward privacy.
To be half, without a tagline, without a price tag.
Glass half-full/half-empty? Bottleneck issues.
The full moon ceremoniously peeks around the mountain.
Ditching the lighthouse without a tip. Nature’s scandal.
Don’t think about it too much too much too much too much.
I am murmuring to myself, under the pirates bandana no one knows.
Not even my other half that doesn’t drink beer, doesn’t sing along.
He cheats on me with another half. Haphazardly. I may know why.
Am I dispensed for the better, for the worst; Average, my new style.
Not thinking about it too much, gulping, soothing sips. Tuning in.
The sparkles in my throat are mute, though salsa with my vocal chords.
Latin silent night, solely mosquitoes are playing their tricks on me.
On all of me, unfortunately……
My other half returned.
Night intruder.
Flight mode.
Humbled.
Hush.
hmm.
hm.
m.
.