Lone Soldier

In demand

the coat of our tongues and

down our throats

with aftertaste and

lapses, and I spend

the night; drunk on five beers

out of six—left one to grow on

In your

fridge

 

a move-under-covers; a move-under-clothes—

and

you respond, and things go their ugly course

 

a vacant babble of emotions—a five-beer state of mind

a fuck-or-try-to-fuck night—a morning of could-be-worse

 

—a day of should’ve-grabbed-that-last-beer-after-I got-off.

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