the wreckage of yesterday's has me laid up today, and i've spent three days at home since december. fuck.
and he's pledged to call and wedge in an appointment for me but i'm declining, reclining in the only hot bath i've got. i've switched from cranberry juice to quench the blood to cranberry liquor: malbec. we braised a pound of boneless ribs in the stuff yesterday, and the depth--oh, the rest we did in beer, and not a nuance can be traced!
this is wreckage from front to back, hips to toes. and i realize
not in the throng i was getting dressed to swallow into
i really started this to forget joe, but the more "you know how them are"
"her and me" but worst! oh, duds: "supposively"
then, a gasp of a glance at me, and, trying, trying: "supposibly"--
and i am just shuttered.
he tells me a dream: it's me laughing as he beats others after a clear walking dead heroism.
and i hate it; i think it's because i was snide about his wife's aversion to certain foodstuffs.
i can't handle
joe. not the stinky deaf one, mind.
but the safety
is in the distance