Last night I noticed
his infatuation start to fade;
his shell of love
began to break
because of her failing
eyes and weakened ears,
and a heavy reliance
on technology
that turned out to be
soft-spoken and unsure.

All he wanted was
“just five f***ing minutes”
to himself after
a long, long day
at the deli.

He started to spill
his alcohol all over
me and my clothes and
my heart
as I placed my cigarette
between his lips
outside of Roller Thunder,
and I struggled to pick up bottle after
bottle of beer
that was drowning his
mind and his reason.

Two hours of gas
down the mileage drain-
not even his car but
it still pained him to
know that 20 bucks
was wasted
on wandering
rather than
wine

Lucky Strike after
Camel Blue after
Twenty Seven,
a fumble for matches
if the lighter didn’t
come fast enough.

Through his angry eyes,
he kept me out of sight
until he burned away his
frustration
with a
filthy flame.

At the end of this
monotonous game, nobody won
except for the oil companies,
and before I could
let my legs
walk again,
he pulled me into
his arms-
held me tight
until I pulled away;

he simply smiled and
said with unexpected alacrity:
“I’d love to
see you
play.”

The last observation
I made that night
was his switch from
Reds to Blues.

That was my cue to
drop that hue
and to stick with
Snow White’s initial hesitance
to indulge in
that forbidden yet
beautiful
Apple.