the poet drunk at
three in the morning
mops out the
bathrooms

listens to
the sound of bleach
crawling into the
cracks on his hands

he peels potatoes and
cuts homefries
and hides in the cooler for
another beer

stepping out
he checks the clock

four hours
until he can return
to his typewriter and
his mind is a numb tunnel
filled with empty
rushing trains

sleep
is a word that still
holds meaning

surrender is another

the poet
hungover at noon
is too tired to
bleed

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