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2020-11-12, poems

Moments Away

of the six passed around,
four of my wine glasses
broke. three of them had
wine in them which spilled
across the floor staining the
soles of high heels.

the husbands and wives in
nicer apartments a few blocks
down have wine for tonight,
wine for tomorrow, and a
couple thousand dollar bottle
they’re saving for a
special occasion.

it’s a shame all their
special occasions
have passed.

the second wine glass shattered
outside on the street while
T stood and dragged on a cigarette—
she wears boots, bandanas and
bandage skirts in the same week,
has a fragile face, a
frail frame about the height
of mary tyler moore.

a garment with one stain
is soon to become a painting shirt,
and glass with one scratch
is soon to be shattered—

i broke the fourth glass
slowly after all but one of
the women had left. B slept
while i leaned over the kitchen
counter and tapped the corner
of the glass over a towel like
you might crack an egg over a bowl.

i witnessed the first fracture, the
second, on and on until a
stem was left in my hand and i
used it to poke around at shards
of glass.

moments away, they say.

stay tuned: we’re moments away.

it means something different
when you’re moments away
in the future.