-four hours at the Del Rio Bar-

the spinning

in the middle of 

not moving

in the late afternoon

not knowing if its

dark or light

standing in front of something

behind everything else

with handles needed at my sides

knobs nearly at my fingertips

not yet at the wheel

plastics and glass

cheap upholstery

steel wrapped all around me,
air-waltzing key
struggling to find its slot of purpose,—

I'm ensconced in a wretched cocoon

a closed and rusting fly-trap thinking

I could get killed in this thing.

not one friend took the keys.

I almost fell twice.

they were left to the dangerous 
side of the bar

cheering for wolverines,

fucking crazy 

vicious little animals.

I feared not making it home

but falling to burning metal,
gasoline soaking the upholstery,

curious as to the funeral attitudes
as powder masked the purple

bruises on my head

and cement replaced my shattered teeth.

but if I did make it home,
wrecked sack of beer,
tasting the pasted coating of my tongue,

would I realize those like me,

the same as me——

the same—— 
that very afternoon
late of daylight moved to twilight,

who wouldn’t.

                    ann arbor