There’s a bottle of my mother’s love
Sitting on the kitchen table
It’s gone sour
It’s Sunday morning,
In the piercing comfort of a place
I once would’ve called home,
And the world woke up and walked out on me

The aftermath of July grows right outside my bedroom window
While I sit on a desolate strip of imaginary sand,
With my head in a water cooler
As significant as an ill-fated horsefly