The Nights

There's a rawness
On the back side
Of his foot.

Another cinnamon sunset.
The heat fumes ripple the horizon rust
Like parachutes in the hands of children playing,
Like fitted sheets about to be stretched tight
Around the rumpled mattress.

The label's peeling from his chilly IPA.
Too many evenings
He discovers himself here,
The beer an introduction
To the night
Before the rye finds him
And puts him sloppily to bed.

The gas is over five a gallon,
So he's taken to walking himself
Across the oven walks and blistered streets
To places she has never been.
His boots are wearing a bit into his heel.
He can forget it most of the time,
But some nights, the open ache's impossible
To ignore.
She preferred wine bars
She glided on Prosecco.

- 4/29/26

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