Still, after everything

The waitress waits for you to stop sobbing and order your damn breakfast already

And she holds the pen very loose.

I wouldn’t count on her to bring you tea

To comment on the highway from the window

To ask how far you’ve come to sob on the table she’ll soon clean.

While you are doing this:

Still, after everything, unfortunately

I picked my head up off the wheel for the green light

And peel back something of an unbrushed smile into the mirror.

In December

In the Midwest

My epitome. I am sleeping in the same clothes I’m wearing

Walking the aisles with unwashed hair, the inevitable cold, and tender eyelids

Buying hot lunch or a tube of chapstick.

It is the last month of my life because I only live for three months a year

Those months are November, December, and January, minus the holidays—I’m not alive for those.

You stood in a theater of adorning eyes.

You were tired of your brilliance. It prevented you from sleeping.

Not me. No. Never. I’m too busy using my hands in combat.

Look: I can run away now with no hands.