March 3rd: On the way back home stop at the gas station
And pick up a case of gold mine beer. Drink
Its liquid, breathe, and let your back wash soul
Sit in the back of your mouth contemplating
The pouring paradox of disaster and inspiration
In a tin can and groan. Crack Another—
Skip supper—write illegibly about
A legacy of loss and irreversible indulgence.
You've struck something and then become sick, so
Sleep on your side and wake to throw away
All prior obligations. Shake in bed
Clutching the smell of defeat in your arms.