File under jokey fragments, recent
my life was tits and whiskey.
I’d be lying if,
on this late-November night,
I said I didn’t miss it a tit. I mean a bit.
I need to write more about other windows.
I’m getting bored of my own stories:
Yes, Antarctica, dishwasher blah blah blah.
I have sat imperiously, tie’d and jacketed,
in the lobbies of luxury hotels.
I have sipped coffee in Venice Beach hostels,
washed up from a firing.
I have mopped floors at the world’s bottom
and fallen before bulls.
I’m 28. I should have spread things out more.