and then the one bright thing / underneath

[ke_rose_ne]

Difficulties
Tracey Knapp

I fell asleep in the grocery line while
waiting to buy you a ham. I was waiting
for the right moment to tell you.
I told you about my first time in
Cincinnati, the man on the bus
who smelled of formaldehyde.
I can still feel his wool jacket
scratching against my bare arm.
I can barely feel my fingers.
It's so cold that the whiskers
on my dog look like icicles. We
are walking towards the sun's last
attempt. The snow is stacked so high
but my dog begins digging like there's
an enormous flank of steak beneath,
and what does he pull up but his old
squeaky whale! We hadn't seen it since
summer. It's been a difficult winter.
It's been difficult to smoke pot
with my accountant. He tells me
it's not the sixties, and it's not the first
time I've heard that. The first time I heard
about your sick cat, I tried to call but
I heard you were turning yourself
into a grain of sand. I have turned
you into a grain of sand.
This is the first time I can honestly
say that. The first glass of wine
was followed by the next and now
it's the first Monday at this new
desk, the first Monday I haven't spent
the evening loathing my thighs
over a glass of wine. Where there's
self-loathing, there's yourself,
and then the one bright thing
underneath that makes life
worth digging for.