Potters Field
by Alvin Benatovich - October 23, 1960
Extend your hand in search
For support in this human race.
Call out but to no avial,
For your voice scans an empty place.
Next, cloud your reason.
In this luxury partake
And wish for reverie
For your own sake.
Dry mouthed and identity unsure,
As always, back to bunk.
Whose shame is buried here,
Dead red eyed drunk.
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