Daliesque Dreamscapes etc...

In the break room

The coins never tumbled from
His mouth like slot machine levers
More like a few good blueberries placed
in a bucket at a berry picking session.
He was tired of checking his accounts,
transferring his worries to save his sanity.
There were few new books to be had for the arts
if we were too eat as well.
He ripped into peanut butter sandwiches,
chicken nuggets over brown rice,
a ziploc bag of sliced almonds...
Was it quitting time, time to quit
or merely to relinquish ones duties
to the slum lord and find another one?
He does not know how to win arguments
or haggle when hunger pangs hit
and he can no longer yell at the public
who totally disregard the signs,
the carefully plotted words
you go through one by one
like an instruction manual.
He will bury them in a pile a paper
he will never look at again
until it is time to go on the road...