When the Building is Quiet

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Blank tablet until 2 a.m.,

when the buiding is quiet

except for the comforting rattle

of the air conditioner on the far

wall by the back window. I read

Bukowski, and think about my own

dirt poor times when the wine wasn't

half as good as it is now, and a

sorrow for the struggle creeps up

past the blanket around me.

I could tell you that i've slept

under bridges, in cars, and at

houses in Nags Head, North Carolina

where everyone crashed when they

drunk fell stumbled into broken

glass coffee tables, and ashtrays

overflowing with the cancers of our

youth. And awoke with a vodka

throated full body numbness that lasted

late into the day. But I was happy

then in the disconnection, and perhaps

happier now for knowing that the opposite

is also golden. The chair I sit in is

clear of debris. The shades are drawn.

And I have gone awkwardly to daybreak.

Here with this artificial air.

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