Wool and Juniper

It’s 2:00 AM and the kitchen light

is humming a tune that isn't quite right.

I’m scrubbing a stain on the lapel of my coat,

with a bitter, dry taste in the back of my throat.

I remember the gin on a formica top,

and waiting for the room to finally stop.

The diner sign flickered a cold, steady blue,

in a puddle of liquor that looked just like you.

Now the wool is all matted, a sticky, dark gray,

and the memory of midnight won't wash away.

I’m cleaning the ghost of a night I misplaced,

with the soap and the water and the shame in my face.