Tuesday

I found a receipt in the pocket of my jeans,

a crumpled white scrap with a date from last week.

I don’t want to look at what any of it means,

or hear the small voice that is starting to speak.

There’s a coin in my palm that tastes like a rail,

like copper and salt and the bottom of a glass.

I remember the feeling of starting to fail,

and watching the ghosts of the afternoon pass.

The streetlights were blurred like eggs in a pan,

yellow and sizzling and running too hot.

I was doing the best that a broken man can,

which turned out to be nothing but losing the plot.