Broken glass, that used to be a vodka bottle,
decorates Wilda Avenue—and a heart
that used to be my own,
decorates an overturned Christmas tree
in the grip of my living room.
A painting of orange, holding black,
hugs a canvas in my bedroom.
A sliding glass door I broke through
pierces the bottoms of my bare feet, but
I walk further; I walk down Wilda Ave., alone.
I garnish the asphalt with my lament,
new bottle in hand, slaying dragons the alcohol
brought to life—harming not a single hair
on the head of my heartbreak.
Instead, biting down with sober certainty:
it will be there in the morning.