I live in a miasma of ashes
and the haze of Southern Comfort,
speaking molasses, stuck in sorghum,
and the only sweetness in this life
was watching her smoke
Newport Lights out of the hexahedron.
The tiled table top holds
nail polish droplets,
poker bloodstains and gin rummy,
Peach Shnapps and dominoes,
the girls laughing at the guys.
The bed sheets have been stripped
into bandages and banners
announcing the end of the world,
the odds of love are even with lightning
and true happiness striking lottery winners.
I found a beige bra and a mini skirt
in the bottom drawer; did we eat
bloody steaks across from each other?
Late night Jerry Springer and clatter
before the internet age took over,
drunken dawns and halitosis face to face,
fucking till we were out of breath,
I discovered six faces after developing
lost Kodak cartridges; witness ecstasy
and death, a toothache, a summerís dress,
a crooked smile over pot filled eyes.
So easy to forget about that time,
looking out the gravel driveway,
the lights being turned off
at the end of the cul-de-sac.
Angel Uriel Perales