Two on the table. Forgot all about them
for a hazy three hours laughing with former
friends in a bright cheap bar through beer
squeezed from a sponge like vinegar. Drank it
anyway; had to. Laughed at futures
and stalled futures and the way we talk
about the past as if it’s the future. It never
has been – never will be either,
not even when one of them lights up about
cosmetology school and her new
passion as if it wasn’t all just vinegar
and beer thrown up onto the bright wood
floorboards. Counted it on too many fingers.
Came to what was called home and look,
it’s been months since I’ve used a personal
pronoun. Sometimes I can’t hide and so
I’ll just say it:
I came home and saw two presents on the table
and I was drunk and I had forgotten.
I had forgotten they were there; was glad
to have forgotten; forgot to forget them; saw
them again. Three hours earlier in a dark
brown living room a man who used to have
a family stretched out his arm with two
presents for a birthday diminutively set
between Christ’s and the year’s, presents
he had chosen by himself for the first time
because who could help him? Saw them,
saw them again three hours later, saw by
their shape a calendar and a dvd. Thought
to open them, the gifts from a man whose
name was known once. Thought:
the doorway to an infinite sadness is here.
Thought: it is too dark here. Turned off the lights
and sat at the table. Did not open.
