The fractured stone tunnel hollows.
Browned winter leaves
crackle into crumbs.
Birds’ humming stirs into
a white blanket of silence.
That’s when we deadlock to distrust
& wake, shirts faded, stained
with verbal gunshots. Never
too early for shared cocktails,
never too healthy, or sick,
for what you know to be lodged
in your esophagus, bits of
chicken & asparagus held
together as a spell, or a mantra:
shake me, martini, shake me.
Make me loathe a little more.
(originally published in Random Poem Tree, Winter 2016)