Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time

Part of being a good sad person
is always painting the shadows
in the right direction and knowing
what sorrow to art with.

Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.

My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”

and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place

The sin is existing.

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.

I buy too much, for someone of my stature.
could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin.
its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

my father holds
his favorite drink

I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary
until I smell like the bones
until I am its echo…

The storm passes without snow.
The car waits loyally in the back lot.

I count my homes—
those of my scattered youth
the sanctuary of our young family
the intermittent rest stops
of apartments and vacations.

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster