she examines theories on physics and heartbreak
while emptying ashtrays,
twenty-five minutes after last-call,
four people remain at the bar, in fierce debate
over how the Celtics lost to the Knicks
voices vodka loud and messy
but she can’t hear them
only the sound of Jim’s stuttered breathing
when he’s sleeping she falls in love
it’s always the mornings
when her expectations shade him ugly
the romance novel she’s been reading
is nearly finished,
with each clink of empty beer bottle
the anticipation thickens,
after that a new exciting text
on adolescent psychology
words don’t lose jobs or take pills
they don’t stop talking once they orgasm
words don’t smell like stale grease
when all the chairs are fitted onto the tables
and the floor is swept and mopped
it’s time for a quick drink of her own
maybe a chance to flirt with aaron
the shy cook who recommends mystery novels
while staring at the floor
loosening the clip, allowing her hair to fall
and settle and soothe the ache in her shoulders
she decides to take a deep breath
and imagine her fingers turning pages
Jim will have drunk himself to a last pill
slurring his dreams
she can identify with slurred dreams
“great potential” never meant waitressing tables
true love was never about tolerating mediocrity
once her pillows are perfect
and the lights are dimmed just right
she’ll allow the words to enter her bed
and fill the hole in her gut
and every time Jim stirs with that sloppy choke
she’ll catch her breath and quickly pray
that’ll he’ll sleep through one more chapter
