It's the night,
before another rotation,
things feel right,
unspoken words,
have turned into one way actions,
elusive internet *******,
replaced by the piggle wiggle's,
chainsaw snoring,
the room smells of seroquel, feet,
and the helping of hope,
sticks from a recovery melted poet,
legs of jell-o,
mood of mellow,
dancing twilight in a skyline,
of building and buses,
a year ago he was drunk,
and jail was his entitlement a week,
later,
two years and more,
have evaporated to chemicals and nights that no longer exist,
and lust,
and fair share of unalibitical rust,
the sounds and smells he's,
holding onto this year,
the only hourglass sand bits,
not fallen through, for the feels of fear,
will only disappear,
Birthdays in rehab,
birthdays ad non infinitum,
courtships of programming & meetings,
the poet,
now producing naturally foreign unforced smiles,
better get his sponsor,
to sign his slip.