“Your Average Thursday”

(another depressing poem i wrote when i was 19, in the army)
Tyler R. Martin

      Today:
I staggered into work, hungover. 
Throwing up in my dress-blues, 
Ribbons and metals rattling, 
I grimace, wryly noticing:
Powdered eggs look even worse
(just slightly) 
Half digested in a government sink,
 One which no longer smells like bleach. 
“An improvement,” I thought, 
Patting my pocket
… Fuck… 
my gum is in my other uniform…