9.05.2017

Homewreckers Disguised as Amateur Phlebotomists

She insists on turning
the light on for me--
overhead, how I hate it--
though the sun won't rise
for another two hours, if ever.
There it is in white watercolor:
hers and mine;
salt from both bodies.

In her too bright bathroom
I notice that I've forgotten
my bachelor bag of toiletries.
Months of work fatigue
have knocked me off
the trails I once knew so well
and what was required to take them.

A ghost current from Saturday prior
jolts through my skull
like her godforsaken light bulbs
that show all nicks and flaws.
The poor, beady eyed sot
at the end of the bar
with two pointless pints
in hands bound only for himself
stared blankly through last call martyrs
in search of happy hour philosophers
and willing philanthropists long gone.
His dangerous disbelief in divine misfortune
spewed forth across the oak
as even I felt pity for him
over ever having taken home
a strong six at his highest.
I tipped my standard bill and left.

The same subtle genius
who first insisted that a servant
take his place among the ranks
deemed needed for warfare
by the crown
must've also invented the brilliant evasion
of sending a check in lieu of attendance
at a wedding for which an invitation came early.

I hear her packing a poorly insulated lunchbox
with more food than I'll be able to eat in a day
and reach for the toothbrush
standing in the sinkside mug.
I think through the first few strokes,
My mouth's been worse places than this.

Do any Catholics still go to confession?
If so, do they feel that it works?


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