Winter 2003
	Trent Busch
	COME TO NOTHING
	Instead of getting high he was drunk, sitting naked against the alley bricks, one leg under the other, eyes open as if dead,
	the cat balanced on a dumpster searching out the comics fish, astonished at so white a thing, neither soothing nor threatening.
	This is what comes from expecting something for tipping a bottle, for pushing a bill worked hard for across a counter,
	foolish aspirant stepping from a carriage so many gone before have ridden effortlessly, rising over mornings and steeple tops,
	when all the while there is never a gift a drink can buy, just the patience of emergence, as a desert after rain saying, Look, here I am.