By Richard LeDue
Alone and shirtless again,
whisky my only friend with advice;
ice cubes cracked long after I was.
Each sip whispers, “Call her,
even if it's midnight, tell her
you'll make coffee in the morning,
joke how only her fingernails
can scratch your hairy back,
that you'll moan like a walrus,
yet beg her to look into your eyes
as you kiss, so she knows how serious
this all is- that she is worthy of poems.”
But my fingers misremember her number,
and I talk to Debbie for half an hour,
she had hip surgery last Tuesday.
Richard LeDue currently lives in Norway House, Manitoba. His work has been published by the Tower Poetry Society, in Adelaide Literary Magazine, and the Eunoia Review.