If this was a movie, I’d be chased down a dark alley, find a body in my hotel room, get ridiculed when I told the police what I knew or at least suspected. But it’s not, the morning light the approximate putty color of dull pain. Something knocks twice upon my heart without entering. I give up trying to go back to sleep. Clio, goddess of history, drinking her coffee from a skull mug downstairs, looks forward to a future very like the past.
Order Lovesick, a poetry collection by Howie Good here.