Drinking


drinking. the window shows the
wrong view. I can’t see the
street we viewed
together when we shot, when we
were drunk on love and rotgut.
I’m gagging on air, struggling to
maintain a straight face as I’m getting
drunk, trying to forget you once
belonged in my life. the wrong neighborhood expands
under the window, there’s no traffic at
3 in the morning, that’s alright. I still feel you
shooting junk next to
me on that foldout blue couch–—could I have saved you?
that’s the harrowing question that keeps me awake every
half-sober night.