when I'd light candles
for shit like this.
Now I answer the door
in day-old boxers
and bitch if they toss their keys
on my glass-topped coffee table
like the scratches in its surface
aren't mine.
Sloppy after alcohol
the teeth rub freely.
Adam should've pulled out.
Now it's all gone nuclear.
She lies on my chest
a leg thrown across
my heaving abdomen.
"That hurts," I protest
on behalf of my bladder
too sweaty and drained
to go empty it.
"Did you miss me?" she asks.
Hating when they fish
for tenderness long gone
I reply in the negative
and cling to transparency
like a buoy with a hole.
"I don't miss anyone
these days."
It's more convenient
to lie for both of us.
She leaves
when she senses
it's time.
A carpenter's apprentice
is started inside closets.
My fuck-ups are on display
with arms too short
to box with God.
No comments:
Post a Comment