saturday

six of us crammed in a double bed,
damp is my hair and it flicks your right cheek
when I toss and turn, muttering nightmarish speech.

frightened is she, in the middle, with another’s left hand
pressed flat to her stomach. I peer over and see
steady rise and then fall of her ribs as she breathes
thick sheets and quilts rustle as he’s fiddling,
more like kneading. like a young boy beginning,
hoping that it’s good. but you know that she’s gritting
her teeth, making eyes at the ceiling. regretting.

now the sheets smell like smoke as two of us lay smoking.
and we ash in a plastic cup passing.
the warm beer entrails hiss, like a slight child’s lisp.
I recall making eyes at a man
with the teeth and the wobbling walk of a boy.

the dawn evermore nearing, our eyes closed,
all six pairs scrunched shut so to ward off the cut
of truth morning does bring.

If we fall into sleep in the dark then to wake,
means we left with success,
like a naughty stray pup sent away from the door
every movement and nuance to the night come before.