That coffee cup, ashtray, candy dish
all standing in the way, demanding
some sort of attention that would elude
this face. What then? Perhaps the tangle
of dream still smoking under barlight
or the wrangling tangents that glint
from these. Perhaps light bends
like steam — all whirls and vipers.
Perhaps smell, that most lurid of lures
drags us like bulls through a bayou,
trudging through the musk of another day,
all haughty and ranged.
And that digital clock there, flashing noon
— it’s always noon here — has no tick
like chattering teeth in feverish heat.
And what of that pile of yesterdays
crusting in the sink? What of the stink
of your cast off jeans, the grease
of your labor locked in the weave?
There will be time for those. Yes.
There will be time.