Metro 29 Post 9-11

I am a certain failure,
unable to write the next word

or stop my life from turning
into a tumbler of fear.

The cops wait for me
in the driveway, the phone

is tapped — I might as well
flip on a turban

and stretch my thoughts
back through the centuries,

where only the symphony moves
forward, somehow reaching

for God: I have seen one hundred
ways to die and chosen none —

the bourbon on my lips
looking for your kiss

that remains an elusive memory —
sunk in living room pet dander

and stale air.