That second cup of coffee was a mistake.
Or maybe it was the ice cream lunch, carton
dripping in reflection of melting
discipline. Sobriety, really just a game
of definitions. The clouds clearing
from mountain tops, shedding
light on the bare severity
of day’s mood. Ash gray
roof on bone
white house. The shutters are pale
blue. 6pm on a Sunday, the perfect time
for romanticized beer buzz. Maybe wine.
The space between laughter
and twitching sob close
like Summer’d air in
rented apartment. Like space
between firecracker in celebration.
Gunshot in menace.
In Summer, with your windows
shut tight to block out your joyous neighbor,
his musical friends. You too play
an instrument, in the sauntering trombone
saturated Summer night.
With fruit flies who drown in ashen glasses
dribbling cheap wine. And the second cup
of coffee is better than fifteen years streaked
with drunk. Discipline still gets soft,
slender spoon making it easy work.
There’s a buzzing paralysis in the shifting
horizons of behavior. A teacher once
telling you your words are blunt, your instrument,
that of bruising. It was meant
as compliment and you took it as such.
Though the tongue is lithe.
An athletic animal,
and you might like words that alight
quietly, fuzzy skein of skin left
rippling in their wake. Your father
would knock you down, demand
you into my temporary room. A hitching scoot
beneath his shoves, his blunt
instruments. His tongue,
quivering, lithe and athletic,
visible between white parted lips.
The second cup of coffee
still feels a mistake, though maybe a little
less so. Evening flares
in its failing light. Success,
really just a game of definitions.
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