Drunk at IKEA.
Is "björkåsen" a table,
or me throwing up?

i see him off.
i shut the door.
i climb back into bed.

toes in lasting body heat.
covers o'er my head.

bleary eyes on yellowed screen
til warmth's faded away.

i check the time
and heave a sigh.
it's time to start the day.

one letter stands out,
my finger moves to match it.
A. A. A. A. A.
i notice, then i forget.
it stops on its own.

sometimes ideas
flow, and i map out smooth curves.
S. S. S. S. S.
... unfortunately, it seems
i prefer corners.

these days my thoughts tend
to rest on cut, dry nail beds.
Z. Z. Z. Z. Z.
on vowels and consonants.
on his warm, bare skin.

i just met a ******* the floor
of a stall when i opened the door.
she cried, "he's a punk!"
then threw up, clearly drunk.
... i don't have to go anymore.

i saw a cockroach
at Olive Garden tonight.
... one more basket, please.

so many people
have written about the heart.
why not about feet?

and as she rhapsodized
I could only watch in high fascination
the curve of her lips
the twinkle in her eyes
the excitement in her voice.

(like sparks)

a sweet keen of
metal on metal
that left me blinded
every time