By Michael Easton

Ink on drink rings. For you.
I know that doesn't mean very much.
Yes, I'm still trying to get this out of my system.
It's dark out, and I am thinking of us.

Nights have been bad lately, worse than usual.
Staring at pills and Red Label and waiting
for sleep to come.
In the pitch; remembering a time when I thought
we still have something.
If something is being too drunk to get out of bed sometimes.

Staying at that place by the beach,
making love and listening to your records all day.
Bizet. Verdi. Puccini.

Do you know that I miss you?
How can you? You are not reading poetry right now-
you are lying in bed, next to someone else.
Some guy who would never play Ornette Coleman
records before sex. That's why you're happy now.
Don't ask me how I know these things.

And, yes, I'm still bartending, if it matters.
But in a four star hotel this time.
Forget that--you're probably staying in one.
I always knew you could, with your looks.
Your ways.

So why did I love you? So much.
How did I ever say goodbye?
Did I say goodbye or is that my lie?
Maybe you walked out on me. I always forget.
Did you explain everything in a letter marked
PERSONAL?
I never got it.
Maybe you wrote something after a shower in the steam
of the bathroom mirror. I missed it.
Miss everything, but stumble through.

I just keep wondering if this is us?
Can we borrow some hope somewhere,
or is this the way it will be forever?

Ink in drink rings again.  For you.