By Bruce Gunther
--
I wake up booze dizzy
in the backseat of my car
that straddles yellow lines of
a bar parking lot in Freeland.
I remember raucous swaying
on a dance floor, and trading shots
with other bobbleheads at the bar.
I can only imagine my love against
another man’s back somewhere
in Saginaw, strands of her hair
flowing over his shoulder.
To think I’d fed coins to
a pay phone, dialing with
inebriated fingers, slits for eyes:
He hung up after “Hello?”
There’s no pity in a place like
this, freezing and hungover
in an old Buick held together
by rust, prayer, and faded luck.
When I emerge with the rise
of an aching sun, February
air stings my nostrils; and I wince
from slivered sun’s rays in my eyes.
The day’s first cigarette lit,
I think again of her bright shiny
lover, her head coming to rest
on his chest, as silent as no goodbye.
Comentarios