1496

for the record,

NY never had to do with you.

I hope you know that.

It was a barrel of oil

turned over

black sludge filling

the grooves in the pavement

little cracks for nursery rhymes

it was that viscous sludge

I was afraid would catch fire.

I guess that’s anxiety

or self loathing.

I guess that’s fear of failure

and success and the horrifying

mornings in between

where toast seems

impossible and alcohol

the only stabilizer.

What a fool.

As the Texas sky

turns bluer and bluer

I wonder where

I’m supposed to be

and hope Ben

doesn’t think too much

of my strange hours

the coming and going

the days spent on the porch

sweating as if to atone

for some horrendous crime.

People keep trying to

give me things,

affection and advice,

and at midnight after dinner

I tell a woman I don’t know

I want nothing

and leave Austin

happy and alone

and alone

and grieving.

Perhaps I should take your

painting off the wall

or just hold my breath

when I pass it

or maybe give it a rose.

I haven’t decided.