Days like this, I can afford to die.
It won’t cost much;
Just the photo of her in my wallet,
two sticks of spearmint chewing gum—
and a phone call that never arrives.
Days like this, I cannot pay my rent.
The eating, the sleeping, the drinking;
Me and all my love affairs—
that taste like chewed up yellow
notebook paper, coughed out
by the big black dog—
barking all day through the drywall.
“Happy New Year,” I seem to say
to nobody but myself, scrubbing
lipstick from my glasses and
vacuuming the paper streamers;
Some pink confetti deep in the shag
reminds me of my own remains somehow,
as I wash out these rogue stains
with the tilt of another bottle.
Days like this;
No thank you.
I’ll feel better when I’m back at work
and the phone rings. I’ll be too busy
to answer it by then.
She will leave a message and grumble
something about the weather.