 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
It's Saturday night and Lisa
is burying her husband
and me in Scrabble,
long words coming out of her
like children—theirs
are upstairs, finally asleep
at nine o'clock, when Lisa's
speech slurs from exhaustion
and Arthur calls me Honey
by mistake. They wrestle
on the carpet in hysterics,
roll into a kiss.
The window in the guest room
douses the bed with moonlight.
I close my eyes picturing
Susan Sarandon in Atlantic City
bathing her chest with lemons.
Last night Nina phoned.
She's decide to stop dating.
She hasn't gotten over
Howard, and her hands
are full with her five year old.
She asked about work, about
my poetry. I said, Listen
I feel fine: you're not dating
and I'm glad I was the man
who helped clear that up
for you. I'll never
get to sleep in this light.
Now I remember, it's the last
night of the new comet.
Hale-Bopp, two guys
who spent their lives looking
at the sky, found it.
They say it won't be back
for 2000 years. I don't
understand how a chunk of ice
holds together for that long,
leaving its comb of light
like a whistled song.
— Douglas Goetsch
from Nobody's Hell