The Pothead And The Drunk by Ben Newell

It’s the coldest day
of the year;
I’ve locked my keys in the car
with the engine running
and
my antiquated flip phone
is dead.

Luckily
the leasing office is open;
they let me use their phone
to call a locksmith—

“Give me about thirty
minutes,” he says.

“Okay,” I say, “see you
then.”

I’m waiting beside my car,
freezing
my bony ass off
when the old hippie maintenance guy
pulls up
in his yellow VW bus;
he’s also having a shitty morning,
says he lost the key
to his wife’s Mercedes—
“Three hundred dollars,” he says,
“for a fucking key.”

“Christ,” I say.

Shaking his head in disgust,
he tells me to lay off
the pot,
the usual spiel regarding
short-term memory loss
and whatnot.

Then he drives off,
leaving me there with my hangover
and no excuse.

Ben Newell is a fortysomething library clerk in Jackson, Mississippi.  His poems have appeared in Carcinogenic Poetry, LUMMOX, My Favorite Bullet, Nerve Cowboy, Pink Litter, Yellow Mama, and other underground publications.

Ben Newell is a fortysomething library clerk in Jackson, Mississippi. His poems have appeared in Carcinogenic Poetry, LUMMOX, My Favorite Bullet, Nerve Cowboy, Pink Litter, Yellow Mama, and other underground publications.

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