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.