Nightshift
Fuck, Ed, you’ve done it again —
fallen asleep on the floor
at the foot of your bed, no knuckles cut
how I do, but a night enough
roughed up by this heartbroken landscape.
You don’t need the reminder, any
precision is a luxury easy to lose.
From down the hall, I wait
for the trumpet of your sleeping breath
to smooth before I come to check
on your glasses. You rest: light overhead
left on, one bright bulb a courtship
to stoneflies, neither shoe
kicked off completely,
bartender’s apron as blanket with
stack of guest checks paper-clipped
beneath a Never-Gonna-Make-It note
slipped from the pocket,
this study of gins and histories
their garnishes can tell but you can’t
quite yet. Like a good friend,
I take your glasses, prop them on carpet
just beyond arm’s length.
Lazy roommate — the lights, the shoes,
they stay how I found them. While you rest
I thread fragments of seasons spent
in wanting to make a Heartland
from desert that leaves bodies coraled,
bleached, windblown:
I write the next rainstorm beside
a nearly dried up canal. Salt from sweat
patterns around jeans at the knee-creases,
sunshine saturates my pores,
disorients to a point where risk of water
becomes an afterthought to my heels
pressing against the riverbed’s warm mud.
I write the next rainstorm
from the passenger seat of a sedan
in a parking lot behind the bar
behind the Sizzler, shitty whiskey better
as antiseptic for perforations
on my palms formed
when cacti thorns, burrowed in
to break a fall, are plucked, pulled,
pulled out. I write the next rainstorm
with the crunch of a black blizzard
between my teeth, hum of so cold, so
cold, in my ear, the granules
in my mouth could be ice chips
broken from the block you’d been working
for hours: you had to ring the doorbell,
dexterity needed for a key
and midnight-dark door handle,
that was the luxury.
Boy, you didn’t know you’d been lost
until your name called out over
a PA system at the summer park —
Please come to the announcer’s booth, Ed.
Seems someone is looking for you.
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