sunday night your nails begin to grow back

tonight is sunday,
you pour a second cup of tea.
friday you clipped your fingernails
in an empty cabin at ocean’s chattering
edge. typically you bite them.
tonight sunday night is two cups of tea and
friday was solitude 
in a cabin near ocean’s edge. 
clipping your nails. 

you smoked weed at every chance by 15. 
by 19, you were drunk every day. 
now you are 39 and on friday night you clipped
your fingernails. typically you bite 
them and most of your adult life you’ve spent 
in the sleepless night of inebriation. tonight you drink
your second cup of tea, your bed is empty, 
your bladder is filling. you’ve not intoxicated 
yourself in nearly two years. you have 
no real idea why. 

the second cup of tea 
nears its demise, your fingers
on computer keys feel naked, your bed 
is empty and your belly round. night’s blank 
stare menaces from a past that tethers you 
to a muttering fear. you’d like to cry
but Men aren’t taught how and you are meager
in your autodidactic abilities and you spent 20 years getting drunk and high
and even when roaming night’s streets looking for 
fecund ditch you were unable to grow 
tears. friday you clipped your nails
instead of biting them and tonight sunday 
night you drink two cups of tea too close to empty bed 
and you are to revel in your solitude 
but right now it just feels like loneliness.
you are often attacked by animals
in your dreams at night and find the waking
mundanity and your own mediocrity 
terrifying. What is the meaning
of human life, and what is the meaning 
of night.

two cups of tea to help you sleep
and a full bladder to alarm
you from empty bed. your fingertips
alight on all they touch with less
of an edge, the beginnings of a cautious grace.
perhaps sleep, like the breath, is a revolving door,
and you have a scatter of shorn fingernails
to remind you of where you’ve been.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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