The drive home--too soon--from the evening’s celebrations: scattered street lights, golden hues moving in epileptic waves the unconscious coast on the interstate for you, the half-drunken dance with raw chicken giblets which fell to a ***** floor, with a flying, broken peeler, skins of butternut squash, my confidence. Four hours pass, I stay on the couch with my wine, the cat, & fresh salt streams ‘til sleep arrives. You left me to be with a dead chicken. Lonesome Saturday eve.