Pawn Shop Sniffle Blues

1.
Sneezy!  Sniffling
and raw-throated
for a couple of days now,
it’s as tired as a song
that’s been popular for too long —
can’t figure out why
it’s hung on — but it has
and I’m stuck
with the drip drip drip
in my head.

Dammit!  Wanted
to fly, to stand up and cheer
today, but I’m beat
and sickly, not quite sick
but run down enough to feel
energy sliding south
from my chest to my feet
where it’s going to pool
and harden and hold me still.

2.
I’m too broke to buy the necessary drugs

so it’s pawn shop time
again,
with me standing here stuffed up and red-eyed.

I bet they’re thinking that I’m crying
because I’m here again with a different guitar.
But it’s just the cold.  I’m never sad
when I stand at this counter.

Pawn shops are full of hope
and optimism — how many people
take the ticket and the cash
certain they’ll be back in time
and better off and better prepared to hold on
to what they left behind?

And on the other side of the wall,
all that dashed hope recycled for others
to find…

I pawn every guitar once
just so the wood can soak all that in.

3.
So I stop and buy
Nyquil and Dayquil
and a packet of foil-clad pills.

At home I mix and match
then float away
under my balloon head,

reach for the neck of the guitar
that isn’t there. 
I wouldn’t call this happiness,

but it’s not sorrow either.
Somewhere in between,
and at least I’m not sneezing.