I hate mornings the most. French-pressing coffee
from broken beans, and facing the same mirror
I smashed the night before because it held some secret
sameness of her I didn't want to see in my own reflection.
The tired ritual of brushing yesterday from my teeth and hair,
painting war circles around each eye while the rainbows
shift on my wall from a window string of crooked prisms
I collected when I played your little Pollyanna...
I'm glad you're dead today.
I'm glad you don't see the destruction you've caused,
that your cheerful whistle isn't splitting my hang-over
while afternoon clock hands scrape at my bones.
There are so many things left to do that I can't finish
except the bottle I've conquered alone.