he coughs up a crimson
splatter of
blood into his handkerchief.
he's dying.
he lights another cigarette
and says
oh fuck.
he laughs to make me laugh,
then shows me
his wallet stuffed with
cash.
disability money. he's on the dole.
he's happy.
he's dying.
he has no philosophy or
religion. there are no regrets,
or confessions
to be told.
he's going out the way he
came in,
smoking, drinking, scheming
a world,
born into it, forever old.
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