Cup of Milk, Glass of Scotch

We sit on a bench in Stuyvesant Town,

stumbling into one another with words:

Perhaps I am submerged

in your heart like one of those

pennies in the fountain;

Perhaps that saxophone player does have

eardrums made of gold;

Perhaps you really would like to marry me;

Perhaps I-


Can’t remember why the finger flicks,

can’t pronounce the time tables on my tongue as the

clock hands march past.

The brass beat swings between us.


The sandman says he doesn’t see you much anymore

You say that we’re all slowly dying.

He asked me how you’ve been and

if you’re drinking your milk.

You say that nothing in this universe is becoming more alive.


I change the subject, quickly:

How’s the stock exchange?

How’s your mother’s hip?

How do you get your lips that shade of blue

and how do you


seeing the coffin

when you close your eyes?

Have you gotten the ant colony out of your head?

Mine’s still there.


The mist hits our legs.

Mid-September, nine months in and I

can’t recall how to tie my shoes anymore

when you’re not around.

The mornings I accidentally wake up

on your side of the bed,

I grasp at the mattress beneath me

looking for your cologne

in the threads of my sheets.

I pour a glass of your favorite scotch,

just for the scent,

and let it sit on my windowsill. 

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