dirty poem

legs at thirty-six degrees and the sky
at sixty-seven, last night’s empty
dishes in my living room, last
call for being awake in the p.m.
hours of ten or after, close to
hearing all the chirps of night
bugs in the dark, the rubbing
alcohol smell of sanitation,
the sewer smell of bathroom
sinks long gone unwashed, but
with soap from my hands, after
i told myself i would clean up
after my own mistakes, and how
my hair never dries, not ever,
even when i shower before seven
songs have a chance to finish
the poem i started just minutes
before i realized just how much
sleeping i’ve been doing lately.