in the spare room of his trailer.
I'm typing standing up
not because Hemingway did
but due to the placement of outlets
and my need for a flat surface
that's almost as rare
as sentences sans cussing
here in the eye of it.
To my right sits half a slice
of German chocolate cake
that I pilfered from some brothers
down around the bend.
A bottle of gin
labeled with the name of Jackie's town
is on the countertop
one room to the west
tasting like sumac smells
and without a lime to mask it.
I'll be so blessed
to never drink either again
Like the birds that started singing
when the downpour stopped this evening
unsure if it was morning
or just less of the night
But the air conditioner overhead
turns on and blasts away
to the thermostat's content
until the mourning lets us go;
Until it's morning.
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