AUGUST, WITHOUT THE SWEAT
I’ve got nowhere to go.
For the indefinite future, I am bound to my bedroom,
wet towels, pills, Vick’s Vapo rub, the smell of sickness,
stillness, and a bouquet of tissues amassed by my bedside.
My little red dove swells
And the man’s probably drinking clouds in his coffee
Shaped like Electric Ladyland
Likely with a cigarette in his mouth that he’ll toss before the first hit.
I ought not to think of what I cannot have
The car that won’t start.
August, without the sweat.
Shit, I spilled my drink
Forget what I can forget.