No Matches

I have sealed all my leaking holes
with make up
So the whiskey can situate
in my stomach
I can wobble on my bar stool
waiting for an approach that will make me feel
just badly enough
to write a glowing report

Instead,
a man with no teeth is buying me a drink
and telling me about a song he wants to sing
Tom Petty I think
and He starts touching my shoulder
so I slink for cigarette
and hope for just one dance
or some naive conversation I could interject.
I swerve and I try
to remember my impermanence
my round shape and
my eternal repetition, in all things
Every moment, and worry, and
time spent planning the future
occurs simultaneously
til I spread out over the porch
not like butter
but something like water
dripping forever
searching for answers

Maybe they're in
the next stranger with a lighter