13 years, so many jobs
so many names you half forgot
got caught and collected
at the corner of your mouth.
Outside, it's one more night,
one more stitch in this rag doll year
and you can still hear the way she'd
try to talk while laughing
any given Sunday night.
Might be you half forgot.
Might be the roaring years
drowned out the hum of their names
in your ears
earned your stripes, now wear 'em well
spell out your name in snow, then
go lay down in the bed you made.
Outside, it's lights and noise
and visible breath
footbeats on sidewalks,
forgotten names with smokers' coughs
all caught in the roaring tides of
the time.
But it's blood clots inside;
a parenthesized appositive
redefining what you lost.
In the clot, one sunk to the silt,
to the dregs.
In here, your living room
is outside the parenthesis,
closed out of the open air.
Spare change beneath the lamp
strangely mocking outside lights,
glinting bright,
but silent.
Inert.
And, just outside,
those city lights
they flash for others;
those with jobs and funds,
with lovers,
with smiles still left
in the tank.
Not fake ones constructed
by nights getting ****** up
or upended frowns painting
clown faces all pasty--
you'll get out.
You'll make it back;
black clouds blow past
and the tide runs out fast. And--
lastly?--
You're made of better stuff than that.
