the dull roar of
traffic below
won’t drown out
the din of my pre

occupation
as it seems

what’s the matter, baby?

I plead the fifth

the one drank
hasn’t blurred the lines
of these prison bars
any more than
her salt on my fingertips
seasoned this broth
of forget

I still wake up with your
whisper of a name
on my troubled lips

a 727 tears at the morning sky
I look at my phone
longing for the inquiries of
my safe arrivals
simple how are yous
each of them
wildflowers
growing from the cracks
of my concrete

the grey glow of my blank call log
lights my face macabre

I fasten my watch
button my pants
and do my best operatic clown exit
stage left

© Tom Watters  2/18/07