still another hour until Jeopardy

the bartender shoots shit with the few sad-looking patrons. miserable, half-empty, 6pm. bad light making it's way from an Iron City neon, through the cloud of blue smoke hanging in the air like a ghost.

still another hour until Jeopardy and I
sing "White Christmas" into the neck of my bottle.

trout fisherman.

I find myself thinking about a ship sinking as I fill an ice cube tray and losing count of things, like the nine scoops to make a pot of coffee, very easily.

cherry red

burns to carbon grey

begging to be flicked

tossed into the ashtrays of tomorrow

and the next day is

waiting just like

today

to be put out.

only to be seen again in

rewind

as I tie the knot

around the trash bag.

I drove by a florist today

that had a van parked out front with

"We Deliver Love"

painted on its side.

they have never knocked

on my 

door.

my mail box is

full of junk and

bills.

that could be love.

only if love

took

Sundays off like the

United States Postal Office does.

I had been

talking about wanting

a typewriter for a few months, probably.

she found one

bought it

paid to have it fixed

and gave it to me for Christmas.

at the time

it was one of

the best gifts I had ever gotten.

just the thing a kid

pretending to be a writer could have hoped for.

I may have used it twice.

now

it sits on the floor

of my bedroom

next to

a bag full of empty

beerbottles

clothes

the garbage can

and lamp.

it's broken

collecting dust

a lot like our relationship.

# "A pain stabbed my heart, as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world."-j.k.

that last night, I

realized

nothing changed before I did.

I walked her to her car and watched as she drove off,

brake lights illuminating the distance

between my house

and 5th st.

she signaled, made the same left turn she had thousands of times before, and was gone.

and I haven't seen her since.

twin holes
on my bed
from a cigarette that

missed the ashtray

remind me
of childhood fears that my

house would catch
fire;

my mothers' pillows
looked the same.