My heart is scuffed, but not scarred.

We left everything as ambiguous as the words I write here;
I could never stand to traffic in certainty,
nor to be frustrated by the promiscuity of language.

The phone rang at 9. That would be midnight, his time, Eastern Daylight Time.

I could picture John in his basement rooms, in his boxcar of a kitchen,
with a Merit Ultra Light going, swirling a bourbon
around its ice in a reclaimed jelly jar.

The cat, named after a dead fascist poet by his ex-wife,
would be perched on the kitchen table,
waiting to sink his sharp teeth into the butter.
And his new girlfriend would be two rooms away in the bedroom,
the intervening doors closed.
She'd be naked under the thin sheet and blue blanket,
reading a psychology textbook
so she could teach her undergraduates tomorrow.
Her drink would be on the table by the bed.

Or perhaps she didn't drink.


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