It’s an ugly age—twenty-three.
Off-balance, uneven. And that night, the year
walked out on me, out of the blue jeans
left in the hallway by my own front door
when I’d stepped out to take a piss
(or had I pissed myself?). Sloughed off,
they’re still holding their shape in the morning
like the base of a broken statue.
In the pocket my cellphone’s ringing—
it’s me, stumbling around the apartment
on the cordless, half-naked, a year older,
hearing the damn thing I don’t know where.
