Midnight,
You've definitely captured the flavour of a man whose dreams, whilst not yet dead, burn lower with each passing of the years.
May I make a couple of suggestions? All to use, adapt, or ignore as you see fit. It's your poem, not mine.
Gyppo.
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I’m the guy eavesdropping on others’ stories
hoping they're worse than mine.
I’m their gothic novels -
spines broken,
cast into ten for a dollar
thrift store baskets
hoping new owners.
You could get the same effect with less words, and possibly more impact...
Broken spined dreams
cast into thrift store baskets,
sinking lower
with each casual rummage.
I’ve been drinking so long,
watered-down beer
loses succour fast.
This is not the terminus I dreamed of.
(That 'of' looks lost on the end, consider recasting the line into something like this...)
This is not the terminus of my dreams.
I need to buy a one-way Greyhound ticket to New Mexico,
find a fine woman who will hold me,
tell me I’m the guy
she’s waited her whole life for.
I rattle my last few cents on the counter.
(Definitely poignant.)
Nobody knows how tired I am.
(And there's the soul of the whole poem in one line. Nobody knows, because dreamers rarely bare their souls.)
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