$6.00 postage paid.
Youíre standing outside at
hosing last nightís upchuck off the front porch
gagging on a hot spot in a clumsy joint
and you look down and see heat waves licking your shins,
vaguely remember dreams of sucking water off
a thumbnail, and of leaning somewhere, tickling your uvula.
The hose has made the air smell good,
but you barely have the gumption to tap
the Gatorade bottle. When you live from one extreme
to the next, itís hard to know when to apologize
and best just not to. One night it hits you: mother of god,
this fight is to the death. It really is.
Iím Sorry I
Never Fixed the Toaster
You were beautiful even in the end
when you were so sick
of us. Mornings I would sleep walk in
and watch you, scraping away at the bitter rye
and knifing the yellow butter.
You would turn and smile
the way people smile
when they use too many front teeth
to bite into their blackened toast.
Then youíd tell me good morning
the way a woman does
when her mouth is full of ashes.
an Order by check