Poor John Doe

He woke up from a scotch induced lullaby, to high to cry, wiping the sleep from blood shot eyes. Kept up until the morning his 3D rendered vision of the perfect him standing idle, waiting for confirmation of his existence from the control stuck some were in his couch. Week old recycled clothed semi washed in a sink, hanging crusty and dry from chili light strings. Quarters are meant for emergency vice money not laundry, bounce sheets are forgotten. How many beers has he gone through that week, the lake bed of tin grows daily, gross that one had something in it. Stale weed fills the air it's green ghost lingering like the refreshing smell of a camp fire,but not as pleasant. Knowing he's a slob is half the battle, that's how he justifies his sad state of affairs. Once a king he's fallen in exile like Napoleon but without the gall for one last battle, he thinks he's defeated stuck in survival mode. Always trying to change gears but never getting past the grinding halt of doing it wrong because the sound make him cringe. Nothing but time consuming effort in the fridge "Three days, hmm it smells fine"...To the mice and bottom feeders who lived with him he was a provider, a saint. The funeral in his kingdom of trash lasted for days as weeping roaches mourned and mice packed their belongings, knowing their paradise would soon collapse. To bad the humans around him had no eulogy in his name. Plenty of ideas and no religion, a priest said a prayer without meaning, a recitation for the unknown, for poor John Doe.