converted garage apartment on a moonrisen street

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. 

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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