I see the opening
can’t breathe
when placing down
the block–
one wrong move
and I’m living in my car again.
Cheaper rent. The simpler things–
brick house,
blue tuxedo–
were romantic once
but my mouth is full of blood, teeth
falling
out,
my stomach yellow-splotched
(but not from sun).
The rocks in my shoes,
holes in my
wallet,
ripped nets my lovers fall
through
(rely on me?
They know
I grind my teeth in sleep).
How summery it was to think I could
make the next job work, mountains
of manila folders
perpetually stacking, tumbling–
the dim light’s exit blocked
from collapse.
(originally published in Stickman Review, Fall 2020)