Tab

The laundry’s piled against the door,

and I’m digging through the pockets for a key.

I find a scrap of paper on the floor

that explains the hollow feeling in

my knee.

Four rounds of bourbon, written in a blur,

a side of fries I don't recall at all.

The edges of the night are just a slur

of voices bouncing off a bathroom wall.

My thumb has rubbed the total to a gray,

the heat of my own skin erased the cost.

I’m standing in the light of Tuesday

trying to find the hours that I lost.