stay
i need a drink
she needs a drink
but instead we are up
before the damned sun
noodling with words
and our own limp legends
hanging in the balance
of another writer’s morning
in america.
i think i see the sun poking up
behind the building across
the street
if nothing else, then it is
just a faint light, a glimmer
i want to watch it
but instead I hide in the bathroom
with the refuse of last night’s
scotch binge pouring out of me
watching the flies that have infested
our home
circle around
the corroded toilet bowl
trying to land on an old shit stain.
outside she is composing a poem
and in here i am contemplating
writing a novel
or slicing my wrists
wondering which of the two is
less work for me today.
neither.
so i flush and head back
out toward the dawn
and this fucking machine
thinking
she needs a drink
i need a drink
and when i get ready to leave
this morning
she’ll say why don’t you stay
here with me a little longer
and just go to work late.
but i won’t
even though i’ll wish I did.
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