1499Z3

Two drummers

and two drunks

keep me up

every week.

They beat bottles of scotch

against leather hides

and always ask the other

to be loved

ever so tenderly.

It’s no good anymore,

Steven,

one says.

This is the

way it is.

And I wonder

if I’ll ever get sleep.

But.

What’s worse?

My son asked for a bottle

for his eighth birthday

and stretched a horse hide

across his bunk bed.

I wonder.

I wonder.

I wonder.