with a good bloody mary friend,
reading a Dorothy Allison book,
watching over spine
the way my world moves.
one eye on words
and third on snaking people,
slithering their way
to whatever 9am gives them,
for sound or affliction.
waiting on the waiter
to bring me my biscuit
and remembering what it was like
to be a waiter, bartender, bastard,
just chasing tips and love and other promises.
been there before,
all the same, all let downs,
and that is why it is better to be
open and lonely
with the weekly vacation of damage.