the nightshift

that woman told me different
things about love. she was
naked and I was drinking
whisky, sitting in a cold
copper bathtub;
I had lost one sock,
at least, and
that was the most
important thing I had.
I was crying and staring
at a million things over
the dirty mirror.
she was probably beautiful;
the door was being knocked
for at least ten minutes
and I could be sure
she was pregnant.
the deep warm eyes
of a kid calling me
dad fettered my
dead brain
while I was
trying to find a
shot under the
broken tiles.
he’ll know all about
Hemingway
and other classics
he’ll someday read good advices such as:
 [“write the truest sentence that you know”]
pick up the black pencil
and spell
“fuck this”
over the kitchen table.