I edit the night away,
waiting for terriers
to solve my crimes
just in time
because I get tired
and uninspired around
11pm each evening.
When my thumbs retire
to the foyer for a glass
of whiskey as my feet
find fire, whether we kiss,
it is there or not,
depends on the weather
and my mood of continuance.
Scratching the scarlet curtains closed
so no one can see us or our
perverted fisherman dreams;
we retire to where it is wet,
where the remote control forgets,
and where the background soundtrack
is a mix of your father's folk music
and your mother's apoplectic rants.
Leaving me alone
might be the only thing
left to do,
even thought
I have been lonesome
since the shoe ate the knife
and I thoroughly enjoyed
a slice of life
when not much mattered
and not much happened,
because there is more poetry in nothing
than blood in a coyote's gut
and stabbed heart.
I don't take this lightly.