Bored To the Last Chance

I met you again, no matter,
outside a library's collage.  No words
spoken different at our last fear
fest, taking second place in that regard.
Begging but not asking for a smoke, I
wondered how many would whistle
your teeth out at long last.  Trading an
orange jumpsuit for tie-died business
prep, reassurances rang with a
wolfish chill.  A kind of brotherhood
gone blank, felonious baggarad,
blue-lit warrants whistling through
bright, dog hound eyes.  Bonds and bail
money and near death, unfaithful departures,
all you wanted were quarters for a coke.  Black.
Bored to your last chance, I heaved out
some change (I wish).  Birthday's coming soon.
I hope.