Morning Light, Couch Stain

The sun, a raw cut across the window,

finds my face smeared on the throw pillow.

Grease print, an impressionist portrait

of last night's bad decisions.

My mouth tastes like a forgotten ashtray,

and the champagne, it was never

that good, even when it fizzed.

A lumpy sag in the middle of this couch,

not mine, not a home.

On the shag, near my bare foot,

a bobby pin, twisted metal.

And next to it, the half-empty glass,

soda water, flat now,

catching the dust in its shallow pool.

I could trace all the shapes of shame

in the patterns of the light.