Poetry
Felix Thursday
Mid-January
Lack of sleep and a beautiful girl
can turn this sinkhole into a fairyland.
I watched it unfold, Januaries ago.
Karie peeled out of her uniform
in the passenger seat,
while I drove directionless,
a veil of fog for a windshield.
We passed the dozens of sloping,
half snowed-upon lawns,
in front of homely houses strung
profanely with Christmas lights.
Only we saw reclining nudes
heaving jewelry into the air.
Accomplishing what solely those
who work night shifts and suffer
from chronic insomnia can conjure.
Everything became something other:
mailboxes were gargoyles;
shadows, black fire.
Cul-de-sacs, the ends of the earth!
We had to stop and rest our night minds.
Parked random and indiscreetly
on Humbug Road.
The window was rolled down,
letting cold air in,
and the sounds of fucking
coming from one of the houses.
It was 5 a.m., a work day.
We laughed, and then
we listened.
