following room

There have been easier evenings than these
around our flatbed. Older cheerers harken
a bottle or two for us, there are crackas
and peanuts if you please. I hold no more
than a scholarship and people like Saneesh
and Charlie come to mind. Sitting besides,
we swing next to a storm window while Shak
refuses to move his bed. Listening, always,
rising now in silk pajamas and balding. He was a total
deflection of lamplight.

There's a different name
on my driver's license and even when we're not out,
Josh and or someone Josh-like is talking
at our face. I tell you nothing stopped when I saw him
last year of course you can't just see. There's more.

Cats, none of which have fallen sick, and I tear to bits
the books. No one in New York is precisely alone
as you. I'm in the following room with a map
and a teaching position and you are to decide.

We eat, we really are eating, and whose car's parked
under the falling trees. After evening the train
sounds sort of alarming. You're wearing a potholder
and it's pink, manning something next door snoring.