And that final joke is as hobbled as the first
winding down with the whiskey and the lights
As your bar-stool companion considers the cigarette that isn't there
fingertips gripped in a remembered motion even as the left hand reaches for empty air
you can hear the pillowed crash of glass in grey waters –
(is there anything quite so true as filthy soap)
In this feeble darkness
we spin into each other's clumsy quiets
we lean into soft walls looking
for hard invisibility
And we showcase our derision
as though comparing scars
ex-whatevers or
ex-whomevers
and really aren't they all the same thing
damage
is damage
is damage
(When the bar-room dimmer begins to blink at your lashes
and the unknown base of your seat stops gnawing at your spine...)
As you remember the shape of doors
and how to open them
thud back onto terra firma
and forward mobility
and urine stained sidewalks
and a confusion of travel
you'll put the curve of your thoughts to rest
(within the grey harvest of a stranger's smile
and forget
and forget
and forget that...)
In this last call of the numbered
and the numb
you are as sharply illuminated as a black and white photograph
all contrast all conflict all gaze
still seeking out that last dance of the throat
that last lightly charred sigh
wondering
maybe
if you'll be lucked with another chance to laugh.
