Saturday rain, and the trapped vapor clings
to the roof of your coffee lid. Outside
the burning of your cigarette foats back
to smoke your face cold. It fails to transcend
the portrait of your carelessness,
your young, bookish loss. In the barred trash
an umbrella sits shot, stubbed like a first-world dracaena.
Your Newport specter dances in his underwear, rummages through
your Barbour coat. Water slips
from the lonely wax, the exterior claiming futility
as nonchalance. The thoughts, your triumphs
merely hover, tortoise-shelled—and how you’ve failed again
to shed your need for love. Robbed by and from oneself,
the faculties are as embedded forgetfulness were,
a shadow you see but cannot lift to confirm.