A dozen empty beer bottles lay on the floor, cluttered apartment covered in discarded clothes. On the couch I lay, mind adrift while R&B music plays. My past is on replay depicted on a television screen which besides reflecting my reflection isn’t broadcasting anything.
Phone rings I see a name I often distance myself from and start to screw my face with a rhetorical question to ask why now and why me. Coherent enough to know I shouldn’t say a word in such an inebriated state, but I reach for the phone anyway….
The Poet Q