The blow to the floorboard above dislodges a cockroach
to fall to where it races as my shoe aims to
save its life and kick it out the door as the 3 a.m. music
takes the bottle lounge bend for the nineteenth time
– O Woodholme! bar to many and home to some –
where will your people go one day when the beer
goes flat and the carpets hold no more ash?
somewhere in the future we shall all dip fork
on another plate and sometimes hold our tongues;
time will have its way with us, but there shall be some
whom we will long to speak to before they go
