The plastic doorway sips at the cold
and the trouble with patience
is color, the way the moon
slips in and out of its texture.
Everything is quiet in the moat,
each number you sneak from my mouth
rolls its r’s like a child discovering
moisture on the back of a song.
A ring sits on a window’s ledge.
A dog is near. A noose is slipped.
A log in the distance finds melody,
finds comfort distended by the stomach.
Just as I never recovered my father
from his ashes I never plan
on coiling my peers into lengths.
This cot has a rhythm the night
mimics with a slow rolling
and when the radio is tipped
the static whispers the prayers of ghosts.
I wish I had something original to report,
something my lengthened peers
could coil in the corner
of a dim-lit yet warming room.
The dog rattles its tags,
shits a bullet on the hardwood floor.