You stand in your underwear,
the kitchen bulb's stark shadows
dig hollows and lumps into your thighs
while you take in the day's mess.
Coffee grounds and guests' wine drippings
on the dishwasher door
satisfy an impulse to destroy,
that 2 a.m. urge to run off solitary into the dark,
to lose your life and find what can be found
in a convenience store parking lot,
on an empty baseball diamond,
out in the road somewhere to see who stops.
You drip old fat along the soap well
and rub it into the back of your hand
to see how it feels, how it shines.
You are animal,
fearless and alone in these wee hours,
running through the night so hard
you can't feel the chill.
You imagine you are careless,
you fuck strangers,
you have no name.
You are young.
Death is still a fiction.
But you turn the dial to find the wash cycle
and slide down soft against the familiar thunk kachunk,
warming your thighs against the door
before heading to bed
to slide between cool sheets.