Don’t with your heart
you will find me too replete
to go home, so
make new
a tilled smell
that answers some junky sky,
jagged like an oyster shell.
Don’t with your rolling smile,
or answer. I try nonchalance
but secretly study each exit
pleading for an entrance.
In a room
with penned in clatters, curses,
and billows of drunk,
this tent of quiet
over my eyes:
extol patience
beg forgiveness
finish my beer.
something has happened.
