Thoughts of Jen
I have been in thinking of you,
Jen, and as I lay around,
The bed rubbed against my back
Like a coffin. The music
Played to tape’s end and was silent.
I was dead to the world; in my heart
They were conducting an autopsy;
On my brain they were shoveling the dirt.
Yet what was in me for you
Burnt as hot in my blood
As flames at a cremation.
Then I moved enough to get drunk.
Where were you? Midnight
Is filled with loser poets
Scribbling their problems in black ink.
My burial in a tomb of drink continues,
And my elbows are convicted of murder.