Post-holiday isolate meals of ketchup, bread, and salt -- outside a 2 a.m. rain --
and sacked on the couch, all sense of communion jumbled with that night's offbeat conversational rhythm.
This is the decompression, the undressing, the farting, the gargle, the want-to-be-alone, the everyone else asleep, and I just want to read on my own.
It's too late for wit to decorate the plain walls of a deadened mind which mutely states it out that oh, man, thankfully it's not one of those old drunken days where I regret hijinks, where not one looker-on wished to watch one drunker perfect the art of animal impressions or ramming into a TV,
where a whole weekend satisfied itself in tasting wine, looking forward to the night of, well, whatever became of it though not remembered well,
and plans including a future that would integrate itself, and now it's plain
that's how we lived a life, and it's gracious, and we're grateful, nevertheless, surprised to feel that good.