Sunday, October 3, 2010

Red Eye

For Gavin

Your e-mail says the alcohol
Left you tipsier than usual:
It’s made me kind of sad. Beer
Can have that odd effect. It’s weird.

We’re both a bit hammered, unfit
To operate a car, forklift,
Or hearse. Whatever. So we drink
More as we attempt to shrink

Great distances to cans and glasses.
Later, as the Pacific passes,
We yawn, we burp, get up to pee,
Look down. Back to square one. Why me?

I hear a plane descend the sky
Above La Guardia. I try
To sleep. I can’t. I masturbate—
Shoot twice. No help. It’s four. Too late

To call. I drift off to a dream,
A flight domestic in its theme.
I see a man stand at a door,
Searching for keys. On the floor

Luggage: one heavy bag, one light.
He finds his keys. (Pants pocket, right.)
I hear a massive deadbolt click.
Me, I am lying on my stomach,

Naked, warm, my legs a “V,”
And hard again—evidently
Quite delighted he is here.
I pull the covers from my rear,

Eyes closed. I feel him slip a hand,
Between my cheeks. You understand,
It’s really you. That’s why I groan,
“Better late than never, prick.”

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