the poet drunk at
three in the morning
mops out the
bathrooms
listens to
the sound of bleach
crawling into the
cracks on his hands
he peels potatoes and
cuts homefries
and hides in the cooler for
another beer
stepping out
he checks the clock
four hours
until he can return
to his typewriter and
his mind is a numb tunnel
filled with empty
rushing trains
sleep
is a word that still
holds meaning
surrender is another
the poet
hungover at noon
is too tired to
bleed
