You keep a butter knife and a porn mag under your bed. We do too much coke.
You pull out Miss December, whisper “God isn’t fair” in my ear. I know.
Neighbors’ alarms start beeping. This is the hour when desperate small dogs whine
to join their comrades in the street who are already getting high off the melt.
This is the spring of dopamine spasms and spontaneous nose bleeds.
Next will be the summer with its careful clean needles and botched veins.
In Autumn I leave. Season of frustrated airports, geographic cures.