Drunk Monkeys | Literature, Film, Television

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POETRY / Under the Bridge / Vincent Vecchio

Photo by Salomé Guruli on Unsplash

Burning eyes’re pried open. 
Gangly limbs dang near rigor mortis  
Muster themselves from hibernation,  

Grateful for the sunrise.   

May God damn that midnight chill, 
A ridiculing cold that erodes 
An already dying soul.   

Ears street-trained for threats 
Tune-in to the dejected trudge  
Of convicts picking up trash   

Along the highway; 
My only company today  
Yet none of them acknowledge me.  

I’m beneath them.  

The existential frost’s shaken off 
To strum a beat-up, five string acoustic 
Guitar filled with rocks and leaves 

(Don’t ask why. It’s my homeless thing.)  

For insults and change ‘til a cop  
With a chip on his shoulder 
Complains I’m loitering.   

On to the next spot.   

Dumpster-dives behind McDonald’s, 
Plenty of scraps to go around & feed 
Some stray, terribly chatty calicos. 

You’re not alone, my furry amigos.  

Later on, shoplift a bottle of wine. 
No corkscrews. Break the neck 
Open right on the pavement,  

The broken shards all too similar 
To my morale as they’re  
Washed away   

From a leaky bridge 
Soggyin’-up my cardboard bed. 
Have t’dry it out in the morning, 

I suppose,   

& remember t’catch a little bit 
Of rain water in a dingy party cup  
For brushing my teeth too.   

No moon tonight,  
Only the drunken croon 
Of my harmonica.   

Hopefully someone, somewhere’ll  
Hear its lonesome tune, and there it’ll stay, 
Etched into their dreams— 

A little piece of me.   

No one to converse with either, 
So I chat with myself, contrive tales 
Of all the extraordinary things I’ll do…  

One day.   

Other times, I’ll just jibber-jabber 
With ghosts, exchanging theories of life 
I wish I could share with anyone.   

Despite this hell, despite this hell, 
I think I’m doing pretty well… At least  
That’s what I must convince myself   

As the headlights of the passing cars 
Dance off the concrete walls— 
My own personal light show—  

And the familiar rumble 
Of their tires overhead softly  
Rocks me to sleep.   


Vincent Vecchio is an on-and-off again writer from Vancleave, MS. He’s had poetry published in The Write Launch, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, The Evening Street Review, Phantom Kangaroo and more. His debut collection of poems, Harmony, is out now via Amazon.