it haunts me,
tricks me, and giggles at me,
as i stare blankly into my
since the nativity of that first
of that foremost
the gunshot pop
of that first pockmarked cork.
the question was
the sour, charming juice that cultivates
debate and sleep.
both the lonely woman and the
proof of the messianic and lifeblood of
the elitist scraping for prestige
the homeless searching to put
fire in his belly.
i scratch my scalp. my eyes jump back and
forth and back.
my legs are sore. my brain is heavy. my
feet hurt from the day’s
lengthy waltz. i danced
my employer’s steps far too long today
it’s that grind that
it’s a red kind of night. it’s gotta be red
after a day like
yeah, it’s a red kind of night.