Before meth, when it was just weed and Mickey’s 40s, he knew where he was most of the time. He could still draw that clock and count back by 7s at least three places. He lived on Tony’s

couch or crashed in Gilbert’s mom’s shed, but he’d think “shit’s kinda boring.”

Now he rode shotgun on the grocery cart Highway

behind the shuttered Walmart down in Santee,

wearing dumpster treasure, vomit-spattered

Van’s, and a greasy MAGA hat,

looking just cool enough to

hook up with the hot

tweaker girl who lived in a

culvert, the one with

purple hair and cum-

stained, rotted

front teeth.

And every dusk and dawn, when his world started

and ended, he’d moonwalk the trolley tracks,

singing Sublime’s Santeria, thinking about

his day spent crawling through broken

single wide windows looking for

things to trade for his next

baggy, all the while

arguing with that

Mexican family

squatting in

his head.