Sober 2

A chilly, damp morning devoid of songbirds (only for a few mangled sorts do crows count as these). Woke with the same damn toothache I went to bed with. But I refuse to take the Lord's name in vain. Instead, I just keep staring at the neighbor's sunflowers---maybe 10 feet tall---and hoping to feel something else. When I lived in the coastal mountains of Oregon, it was a bamboo grove that I tried to meditate upon in my pain and grief. I remained a fool in agony then, as well. Could just have a drink or two and do away with this whole ugly moment. Could have a couple more and become friends with the garbage man for no particular reason. His name is Owen, and when the breeze blows from out of the west, his long beard mostly covers his stained and soiled heart. 

brown ferns---

in an old fanny pack

I stuff all my logic