Spent the whole day yelling
Prophecy was a daily Baileys in the coffee. Every
morning the roommate lifts his decisions right up
to his mouth, blows—two weeks in no one’s
company is a confidence, the way we feel
tall in the dark: put yourself in a bag, throw the bag
in the wash whenever you coax the front
door. Avail yourself of every opportunity to
be right. Speaking of decisions, he affixed above
his bedroom a large ampersand
on pink paper, probably sometime after the
first check slipped through the mail and
he began to count down from twenty
six, in light of pending legislation, subject to
the demand curve for an old-fashioned, provided that
peer reviewers in New England gave the go-ahead, the alright,
okay, let’s not do this now, let’s wait
for the sedulous kitchen bear to wander
back into his room before preparing
the midnight sake.
Max Ridge is a poet from New York. He is currently a doctoral student in the Politics Department at Princeton University. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Posit Journal, Foothill Journal, and elsewhere.
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