Greyhound
is what we call grapefruit juice club soda
and vodka. Also the name of a wolf and
inefficient bus. There is where you told
me stop drinking. But it gives me fangs,
these gnarly sharps I say I need, let me keep–
tires spin in the mud, my bedroom where I
drink alone. There’s a delay. Of course.
It’s 6 PM. It’s 4 AM. Half-crescent awake
drink through morning again. Stringshaped
street I’m twirling aloof. I know there’s
been some kind of mistake. This dim
lobby with icy hands. Who knows. The sun
might go away. Your call. You called my name
at the last stop– I wanted to be wheeled some-
where south of here warm all the time. Where
I can shave all my fur and sweep back up.
Lounge by the beach my tongue of drool hot
midwinter. Past the equator. Don’t you see
those yellow lines you’re swerving over…
underneath my shirt is another shirt I want
to remove. I’m running out of fumes. Soon
you will wait for me in the corner-forest
where it’s okay to talk to the passenger
next to you. I promise. You’ll talk
a head clean off and refuel.
