keep me strong in tiny rooms crawling with roaches.
make the jail of my poverty and no woman in bed
next to me
a matter of waiting on the luck and the style and the death,
a matter of waiting on the laugher and the beer and the loveliness;
and the algebra of love is confusing, and style is doing better
than you can in this certain way, and never being
until you meet Pappa Death
with his lousy glass of orange juice.