The neighbor’s car alarm is a rhythmic scream

The neighbor’s car alarm is a rhythmic scream

cutting through the haze of a headache at six.

I’m waking up slowly from a jagged, grey dream

to a room full of problems I don’t know how to fix.

Three silver cans are standing on the glass,

monuments to the person I was at two AM.

I watch the first light of the morning pass

over the rings of moisture and the edge of the hem.

A fly is caught in the condensation’s grip,

dead on the inside of a glass I didn't drain.

I can feel the resolution start to slip,

leaving nothing but the sunlight and the quiet stain.