Toward morning, the sky begins to bleed,
and car keys being unfindable,
I decide to water the lawn.
Dressed in dontcaradam clothes,
my thumb frames an anchorage for a rainbow,
and Sunday turns into June.
And neither roses nor crabgrass will ever
thank me, or pay for another round of drinks.
These lost weekends are always the same:
twenty books open to page two or three,
the CD player left humming,
candles guttering out. Above the piano,
the traffic lights’ reflection forms an emblem:
window-paned, washed-out red giving way,
for just a sec, to a ghastly green:
The kingdom of stop and no.
I grew up where they measure life
by hurricanes, and now I count off days
waiting for the earth to move.
Tresha says sailors always drown face down.
It’s fifty two miles to the Golden Gate Bridge,
but I know I would never be able to pick
between the city and the ocean view.
Yeah, I’m so dumb, if I was a bird
I wouldn’t even know
which end of the worm to chew.