Rachel McAdams and Other Regrets

It sits on the dresser
that could legally vote
pissing away its ticks
in the wind.
There's a reluctance
to cast it out
from this den
where the unmade bed
and amends crave the same.

Its spot on my wrist
was replaced by a clone
when the band snapped
one morning at work
with a buzz.
The previous night
a fight down the street
raised my blood
raised the hair on my neck
like a dog.

It didn't take long
to flick my fresh smoke
making the hottest
march late in May.
There, never learning
with justice a farce
intervening like someone
with reason to care
we tossed them aside
like rag dolls in Kansas.
It was over before it began
like the best.
Later that week
the word on the street
was that one kid
attacked his friend
over shoes.

It left a poor taste
like the time decades back
when Dylan let friends down
by going electric.
I was forced to retire
a watch that worked fine
over something so null
as the tale tends to go.

She always cared more
that her thighs didn't touch.
I wouldn't have noticed.
Her ring size remained.
(The secret to reaching
the reader is simple:
Make them all think
your words are for them
when truly yourself
makes the pour worth the paper.)