MORNING AFTER ONE NIGHT STAND

I’m trying to define something
but it won’t sit still.
I have this way with words
but not meaning.
The object in question
is up and awake,
dressed, breakfasted,
and maybe outside somewhere.
I’m working with the tousled sheets of a bed.

That’s why I’m here.
I can’t proceed without reality.
Splendor has no say in it.
When all you want to do
is keep up with the world,
you end up flailing,
getting bonked on the head,
or tossed over the cliff
like cartoon cats and dogs.

My heart is broken by the abstract.
I’m comparing her thighs to sliced apricots,
when there are no thighs,
no apricots even.
And her touch is…
no that’s just white space.
With things not what they are,
I can get no closer.

I sit in a chair
with silence,
make a full confession.
I’m center-stage
with everything I do not know.

Alone,
the world clings to artifacts,
the stained glass of a cheap motel,
a compendium of strangers.