Once, I went to bars and timed miles of broken lines
from Birmingham to Gulf Shores before winter
sputtered into the summer of walls and walls and
still: a sliding glass door leading to a reservoir
of afternoon mosquitoes, rippled amber sunsets
hardly worth the bite, a sky matching the whiskey
I shiver down my throat in evening’s falsetto,
where spilled coffee grounds resemble ants
I thought I sprayed; a caramel dripstain
peeks like the sun’s corona behind the carafe.
But It’s too cold for ants this time of year
and bars feel fiction, now far removed
from last December’s felt and bluechalk pool shots.
I glass myself another sour mix, swipe counters clean.
The dishwasher gears slam and I swear
I hear an eight ball’s break from blocks away.
