poem of the day 07.18.11

a july 18th poem

i wake up and realize
it’s july 18th
hope the neighbor’s television
isn’t playing beneath the din
of air conditioner and fan
i don’t know why i consider july 18th
there is nothing significant about it
we are four days passed bastille day
and july 4th is safely two weeks behind us
picasso wasn’t born on this day
but red skelton was
i look out the window
and the sky is dark
last week it was lighter
we are in the middle of summer
yet moving steadily away from it
this might be what i like about july 18th
it’s a monday
and i certainly don’t like the day for that
yesterday was july 17th
a sunday
it was too hot in new york city
ninety-degrees with that goddamned sun
i stayed inside all day drinking wine
trying to watch godard films
my wife and i found
a small bottle of absinthe
on top of the microwave
that i bought almost two years ago
we poured two shots
that looked like windex
we held up our glasses and made a toast
to verlaine and rimbaud, i said
then we drank them down
chased the green fairy with more wine
then i laid down on the couch
to read chuck palahniuk
and willy vlautin novels
and suddenly
just like that it became july 18th
with one hungry cat meowing
from the floor
and the other one in my bed
patting my nose to wake me up.