Her naked shoulder's blue
with the glow of the TV screen
that she can't sleep without
as she tells me on her mattress
that lately she's considered
taking the whole bottle.
The laugh track misses its cue.
I know it's only
the wine-chased tequila talking
since bedhead blather's less seaworthy
than a decade of rejection
but it's enough to cancel Father's Day plans.
With all that's made her how she is
she'd never fuck in a gun museum.
I missed the bid and lost the auction.
There is no final line.
"Out of the Woods" by Chris Offutt.