Chuck

Chuck

 

after midnight,

too much tequila

kicked out from 

the Bar Tropicana

my nose feels broke

 

taxis don't stop - 

it's a long stagger home

down rain-swept

dirty streets

and alleyways

 

I booted the door

the clock crashed from the wall

to the kitchen floor

 

it leans half-cock against

the ‘World’s Best Dad’ trophy

I bought for the kids to award to me –

that was many years ago

 

the clock shows around two

but it must be slow

as the sun is rising. 

and while the day unwinds its eyes

mine are heavy-lidded

closing fast

 

blood reddens my shirt

from my busted nose

there's a lump at the back of my head.

from some other hurt I never felt

 

I swill a mug clean for bootleg rye

 

brushing the table clear of

stale bread and cheese crumbs,

mouse droppings,

and toenail clippings 

 

they tumble, 

like diamond snowflakes

shimmering in the sun’s rays

to the threadbare carpet floor

 

my head is running low and slow

I’m wrestling thoughts of god or gods.

and life and death

and what I should and shouldn’t do

where I don’t or do belong

what to say and does it matter anyway?

 

I thought I’d pray but it came out wrong,

 

“goddamn you, god!

why won’t you give me a sign?

what did I ever do to upset you?”

 

and my mug drains of rye

and the mug fills again

and the sun stands tall

and the light hurts my eyes

and I roll a fag from ashtray butts

and light it from the stove

and the smoke buzz swirls my brain

and the walls melt

and the room dances

and the chair rocks

and the table dances

and the clock ticks

and the sun dances

and dazzles my eyes

and I… slowly… 

 

draw back from the light

 

hours or minutes later

I wake, sprawled on the table

 

my top set’s dropped out in sleep

plastic teeth, tobacco-stained

lie puddled in blood and drool

 

the landing toilet is blocked

it stinks

I shift plates to the side of the sink

and pee

 

and lean over cups

upchucking my guts

and cough and retch

and cuff my mouth dry

and reach beneath the sink, 

for the next to last bottle

of what passes for rye

 

stored for emergencies

behind the bleach,

 

the clock shows two-ish

but it must be fast.