a story from the old house
All of our littered pieces are here. All of our stains and broken glass. So many piles of ashes and my own shadow hunched over late nights and notebooks, agonizing, making. All the lights on at two a.m., coffee and bourbon, you playing your guitar while I write about our life or poor black farmers in the South or the subway. Nonsense and spit, mad dashed ink stains.
Sometimes I’d make pancakes and we’d fall asleep, tangled together on the floor in the bright and early sun.
Holes in the wall, long white lines on the coffee table, carpet burns.
I’ll probably still think about this when I’m old.