wjsullivan.net

Some Come Home

no basis, there's no bayshish for that
he was screaming sticky over a bar table
morning after what cigarette what bottle
an acrid cup hungover afternoon
what greedy slip of the pleasure tongue
the taste of it a wake up knock down
call to arms too crowded to be splendid
too early to be outspent on
expensive evenings, around and a round
so loud the thumping, so flirtatious the sound
high pitched high ball glasses outgroove
the jukebox till the bartender flips
some secret cavern switch
dripping with beer and spilled tips
one explains to the other how
drunkenness is a spiritual thing, a bit
of it leaking out the corner of his mouth
a sizable dribble after the rain
down the the right plane slip
of the flood channel after-screw special
on the worn-out battlefield metaphor
secretly it looks like noble fun
pinching green plastic
between thumbs that fall over
coins an underfoot whistle to the teapot's tune

*

the sound of a puddle scooting
a tire swat breaks the glaze of insects
with iceskates in their backpacks
mourning the depth of excitement
in this long, tall drink of water
suddenly it is when did this puddle go
dripping off a full-fledged Firestone recall

*

none of the taxis are interested in
leave one be, but things just keep
turning and turning and now other stops
are added and checked off because there is always
one more to twist, even as other faltering
screams lose their bandwidth.