I need two more poems
to make nice with the night,
two more whiskeys
and one soft kiss
to sleep tight.
My mama never said much
worth remembering,
but she reminded me
to sleep like sins don't exist,
something I've never been able to attain.
My voice is an untuned piano
and this poem just might be
the one to save everything,
but probably not.
If I tailored my tomorrow
into bones, what would
the fossils tell the scientists
left over living other mornings
after style and answers?