Reflections On a First and Last

The coat rack welcomes
me back home
to my still
third-storey walk-up.
Where the metal's
scraped the wood
is clear--
They see where
I'm rubbed raw.

I take a swig of week-old wine
and wonder--
Why'd it sour?

My bladder drains
the drinks we shared
and offers consolation.

I hang my best plaid shirt again
to fight another day
as Casey grips his birch.
We cling to hope like bettors.

The Three-Day Rule is tossed aside
to ask if she's home safe.
My senses prove as honed as feared--
she's home, I'm great
(from a distance)
(for another).

I knew when she
thanked me three times--
the guilt of robbing hangdogs.

More wine.