hungover and staring at the morning
computer screen in the dead of winter
i think of anything but poetry,
i think of last night in brooklyn
with us coming home in the
snowstorm holding hands,
and you slipping along the pavement,
and me telling you to be careful the whole time,
and how we both talked
about getting in the apartment,
getting off the wet clothes,
the wet shoes, and fixing ourselves a stiff drink.
well, here it is twelve hours later
and i am at this machine again,
hungover and shaky from five scotches,
a glass of water at my side,
and the windows open to the hilt,
hoping for just a little bit of winter wind
to touch me, a little bit of snow to
cascade inward and cleanse my soul.
and i wonder if you feel the same, or if you are
anxious to attack the barren drifts again.