Circles by Aidan Murphy
CIRCLES
Chased by beer-cans
I wake on a foam bed
with a stiff knee;
my mouth's been chewing
Kleenex in the night.
She enters with a vengeance,
draws the curtains,
sighs a dragon-breath
at the sight of stubble,
blood-shot eyes.
She never asks how I feel -
too late for such nonsense.
Her plans are higher than
my small hungover head and
its flat pillow-world.
I try to explain my circle-
theory (always the same day,
how permanent I am).
But I slur again,
I screw the context.
Her loveliness hurts.
It scares me back
to the northside of town
where the jukebox goads:
One Day At A Time Sweet Jesus.
© 1987, Aidan Murphy
Chased by beer-cans
I wake on a foam bed
with a stiff knee;
my mouth's been chewing
Kleenex in the night.
She enters with a vengeance,
draws the curtains,
sighs a dragon-breath
at the sight of stubble,
blood-shot eyes.
She never asks how I feel -
too late for such nonsense.
Her plans are higher than
my small hungover head and
its flat pillow-world.
I try to explain my circle-
theory (always the same day,
how permanent I am).
But I slur again,
I screw the context.
Her loveliness hurts.
It scares me back
to the northside of town
where the jukebox goads:
One Day At A Time Sweet Jesus.
© 1987, Aidan Murphy
