the weather is all wrong
to where I can't sit and
smoke on the front steps without
feeling the cold damp right through me
so I sit stagnant, sighing, crumbling
read some Raymond Carver and
share the couch with the man I ended
things with but still can't untangle from
he's curled in the fetal position, taking up
more than half, farting
still wearing a jacket and shoes
I'd rather not share anything anymore
I'd rather have a couch to myself
in a place that's mine
I can't claim anything
I'm stuck with a placelessness and a
headache from all the alcohol I said
I wouldn't drink and I want to throw
my phone into the North River and
maybe myself, too, sometimes