THREE MORNINGS
(i)
he woke up
in the cold arc
of another man
a haze
above his head
whiskey tinged
perfumed regrets
kiss lips
that screamed
the words
I’ve fucked
another random.
(ii)
he wakes
in the cool
& familiar curve
of the one
the one
who dared
to tame him
who tied him down
restrained him
the one
who built the walls
& forced him
to endure
the same
the same
the same
mundane
existence
(iii)
he’ll wake up
alone —
eyes in the ceiling
scrutinizing details
only to conclude
the space between
a man and mattress
is almost always cold
& familiarity
is no conductor
.
MS PARKES
wore
the same floral print dress
sat in
the same pew
sang
the same tuneless hymns
recited
the same prayers
shook
the same clammy hand
beneath the door of the church,
and yet despite her habitual faith
God blighted her with lung cancer
three weeks from diagnosis
to furnace
as I look upon the empty pew
and smell the same stale air
I can’t help but think
that I really should give up
smoking.
