How Many Naugas Had To Die
So Your Ass Could Fall Asleep
In This Overstuffed Chair?

I don’t mean to place blame
or fall asleep before you go home,
but honestly? Every poem should start

with fake dead cow – plus it’s hard to ignore
the blood stains, all rust and residue.
None of this matters if this room

stays unpopulated. No conflict
without characters. The two of us,
maybe, and that girl we both want

but do not love. Call her Bridget,
small breasts and sarcastic mouth,
tequila shots and cheap vodka –

whoever passes out last sleeps with her.
Cigarette breath, fake orgasms,
lurch and spasm of a perfectly spent youth,

only thing crazy about the story
is how long ago everything happened.
The future is easy, it’s the past

that flirts beyond our field of vision.
Where were we? Right – this ridiculous chair,
fat and dapper in the pale light

of late afternoon, slowly waking
to the realization that this – this
is exactly what we were looking forward to.