so my dad’s friend was bartending and saw a guy put something in a girl’s drink so while the guy turned around he switched their drinks and watched the guy roofie himself.
the postcard I found in an album
addressed to Jay, from a place in Scotland.
A mechanic’s business card in a used poetry book,
from someone you never thought would pick it up.
Empty liquor bottles lined in the cabinet,
crumpled up tissues and out-of-ink pens.
Not every writer has stories fuelled by imagination;
some see the evidence of ones that just need to be told.
i had a small radio
that i listened to
basketball games on
while i cooked myself
there was a window
above the sink
and on the sill
baileys, jim beam, bombay, crown, svedka…
you’d stuffed flowers in them
and the flowers had died
i sure as hell wasn’t going to replace them
you were long gone