Scars, Omens & Other Bullshit

I knew I was going to bleed that evening
by the way the horizon ate the sun pink,
and while polishing a wine glass
it broke in my hand and caught my pinky.

Blood bathed the bar
like the Bloody Marys from that day’s brunch shift;
this turned into a begrudging double,
but I wasn’t supposed to working dinner.

I thought, good, I got it out of the way,
but that wasn’t the foreseen bleeding;
nothing a brown bathroom paper towel
and some vodka on The House couldn’t fix.

Later, I fell hard,
hurt my heart and she the future, foreboding,
that foul November
full of anti-confidence.

Barack Obama won,
and I was alone,
yet the world knew
and I did, too.

All I have to show for it
is a lousy t-shirt and scar on my writing pinky,
perfect for this spacebar
separating something like life.

The glass is still in there, somewhere,
settling down, while I am restless, still,
and I now I take the elevator everywhere,
because the ascent is too much to bear.

Today, I bit my fingernails,
and looked at my pinky ring
while picking my nose at a stoplight,
and I went back to cleaning up blood.