I’m all busted up inside,
it’s spilled out.
There’s nothing left
but sawdust and hubris.
Dust and crumbs.
Tom Waits is saying it
better than I can,
and I drive with tears
of no consequence in my eyes.
I want to start drinking
at 8 A.M.,
chuck it all,
fuck it all up,
what little remains.
Feeling is gone.
Felicity is gone.
Belief abandoned.
The bed is cold on both sides
and how
can I move?
The eggs and the coffee
taste like shit
this morning
and Tom Waits
sings on
and it’s raining
and the windshield wipers
are busted up, too
and I don’t care
because
what’s to see
beyond the window
but more
of the same?
