Lonely Friday drinks force toothy Saturday smiles

The cigarettes I flip don’t always make the top

shelf of the neighbor’s roof, and

the girl I love, sometimes its quick

And she’s quiet for a long while after.

There are nights when the keys are dead

anatomy class frog heart ghost pulses,

on my digital punchpad of doom.

Most mornings I rush to the car and forget to brush my

teeth, hair, grab my belt, my hat,

And when I catch that two o clock reflection off

the meeting room window, I scowl and

force a puss balloon off my face.

Things get messy, and I whine bitch moan

shit talk foot stamp hyena stare and

jekyll claw and hate and stand for nothing or

anybody.

 

Then a butterfly rips across a rearview mirror

silhouetting a dawn sky sunspot or an old man

lights a cigarette outside a library,

And in the turn of a rusted rail line switch, my tunnel

vision caves in on my breath, for the first time in

A week

A month

A year

A lifetime

In and out and despite the thorns

I hold the rose as one.

Naked of time and talk,

the petals fall around me.

 

I smile and am

grateful for the morning rush

And the smell of nicotine in the summer, and

my fingers, though swollen, like my love and my girl’s ankles,

alone on the electric trains and carbon crusted buses,

I am comforted by their queer consistency.

Who am I to take this work and spit on the pages

that write my life?

I’d much rather ball them up

and start fresh in the morning.

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