I used to piss your name in the snow,
yellow curly Qs my specialty,
after a dozen dollar drafts
at the Shanty with the brothers Molloy.
Men in the company of men
oftentimes become boys
so this expression of love
was the best I could muster
given the circumstances
of a night cold as a witch's tit
but warm with the bonding of brethren.
I got to bed drunk our first night together
with a vague memory of sloppy promises
and conniving kisses stroking your sweet
shaved spot for seconds before passing out.
I got to bed drunk on our wedding night
in the Happy Valley motel ice machine
after throwing up tequila and tabasco sauce
on the wedding gown handed down from your mom.
I got to bed drunk every Friday night
after barhopping with the brothers Molloy
cursing you out for busting my balls
for keeping the toilet seat up after puking all night.
I go to bed drunk alone every night now in
a motel room reeking of mothballs and ammonia
after you filed charges of assault and battery,
a one two combination I don't remember.
Divorce papers, charges and lawyer bills
scattered about this mattress teeming
with bed bugs, my bags still damp
from being left out in a tempest of hail.
I reached out to the past but that shit don't last.
One brother Molloy married a waitress
from the Shanty and moved to Jersey.
The other brother Molloy is still in jail
for passing bad checks all over town
with more than a few made out to
pissed off collectors of my debt.
I reached into the cracked black leather
of my moldy wallet and pulled
out a strip of photo booth pictures
of two Happy as shit sweethearts
without a worry in the world,
remembering how I used to piss
your name in the snow.
Now I piss blood on my boots
worn treads slipping on the red
ice atop the tundra
that's become the soul
for a party of one.