A speck on a tile,
the cabinet floor,
my patchwork wooden table
left to disrepute.

That red speck of being,
crack open another,
the sharp side of glass or else
the fluid within.

It laces my blood,
or else is blood itself,
staining my innards
and shaping my mask.

My martyred heart
and its tireless pound,
marching the red-coated soldiers
to their eventual demise.

Incorrigible workhorse,
sustain my progress
when all else has turned to ash and rain,
when all else has been slain.

My Boxer, he pleads
to keep on up the hill,
to allow him his efforts and fluid,
when we’ve all but given up.

And so I shave in the light
of the late-morning glow.
My hair collects in your old shaving mug,
remnants of yesterday.

So for now I’ll ignore
the speck on the tile,
and all of its false promises
in the time of my storm.

For now I’ll awake
with taut skin and white scars,
with broken-sleep eyes, pastured bone
and some far-off notion

of forlorn hope.