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How many times did this guy visit this place?
No, not the steps in this alleyway,
But the place within that round hole.
The place he can carry about with him
But hidden, he thinks,
In a brown paper bag.
Wherever it is that he goes,
This bag holds no more of it.
So it's discarded like his dignity.
Last night it was filled with either
A bottle of better memories or
The potion of despair.
One that he sucks to move him from
Where he sat on a cement stoop
In a dank alley to somewhere that hurts less.
Because here is not the place he wants to be.
Nor the place that he was last night after
He brought this bag to this step and poured
Escape all over his soul.