Cardboard Crux

All at once the gods let go
of a nourishing nectar
new to my nerves:
Canadian whiskey and plain club soda
with two maraschino
cherries dropped in
(three, if I'm honest, since my tooth
needs the sweet).
It tastes like sand and bitterness.
It tastes like two-and-a-half years
of my twenties.
My number's still blocked.
I'm grateful

for things like humor
and piety;
for the way that she knows
I'm asleep
once I've rolled;
for the fact that
the fridge light goes off
and saves on the bill
when the door's shut.
There's air in my lungs;
I'm erect; I'm awake:
There's a list carved
into my skull's flattest plate.

My friend hasn't called
'cause he let himself down.
I told him my love's like the sun:
not a choice.
For now he fights demons
alone in his closet.
His hair lines my sink
from the buzzer's brief shakes.
His head was pitched over
my trash can. His mohawk
would not get a job
for Pete's sake.
His parents were not
so punk rock.
Attempts at distraction
came off like a tic
while I prayed that the
poem wasn't noticed
down there; some stanzas
in marker next to the plant
that I threw out along
with her artwork.