9:46 p.m.
Matt Rhodes

Sometimes you’d come home and I’d be

     amicable, sipping coffee and observing

     the subtleties of Godard and the

     Nouvelle Vague.

Sometimes you’d come home and I’d be

     insouciant, working on the seventeenth

     cocktail and second pack of cigarettes

     and observing the vigor of hardcore

     pornography with my pants around my

     ankles and my intestines on my sleeve.

Now the couch is empty and the television

     flickers grey blizzards and you are

     wholly unsure.