A hangnail moon, cracked, yellow, half obscured,
lay limply on a ragged bed of cloud
behind the bowling alley where we stood
in late November, Tuesday, I believe.
I looked away and tried to think of what
excuses I could make, what I could say,
besides I’m bored, besides I want to fuck
another girl. The winter air was thick,
the wind, rising from the bay a mile off
was damp and swift and cold. her cigarette
was yellow at the tip, and on the butt,
and all that I could think of was the girls
who finished off their wine, then paid the bill,
put lip gloss on and left two coasters, on
the bar, which they had kissed. They winked and turned
and looked around before they walked away.
I think my average score was low, we bowled
four games, and left, at midnight, when they closed.
At home the dog was waiting, and I thought
how fuckin’ stupid I would be to leave
this life. We last had sex three weeks ago.
I’m up till five am, watching tv
and playing online poker while I read
the craigslist personals. I’m really not
quite sure how I got here. And maybe worse,
no fucking clue how I can get away.
So here we are, at 5am, we three:
the hangnail moon, the yellow smoke, and me.