Dull. Morning dragon, you grind your teeth at me, & nothing happened
then the coffee you gulp in ground assaults to cure five hangovers.
Then off to your notebooks, & notecards, your pens, & your scorecards,
your prayers, your intentions, your dog, & his bone.
Fourteen years of marriage, & frankly, you bore me. I don’t drink anymore,
but bland, base, & boring to you, I give up & drizzle myself with bourbon—
with nothing on my stomach besides. Churning, not knowing your favor
here’s what I say:
I pray everyday, Saints Mary, Matt Talbot & Anthony find us, we’ve lost our way.
In the middle of life, in a sharp thorny wood, the skies are dark at midday,
& since she cruelly gave sideways a look outside Old St. Michael’s today,
at the 2nd St. Bridge I sliced off my hand in the sight of the sweet buds of May.
I’m bleeding & bored by us, but what a curiosity to see! Our marriage
an alchemy of dung & straw, two things so dull they exploded.