Another six-pack in the tub
next to my bed.
I fall asleep with the light on
and a beer in hand.
It tips over
so I wake up in what
feels like my own piss.
My Jack Russell Sparky’s drowsing
two feet higher at the foot of the bed
with all those clothes heaped up,
layered over Julie’s hospital things:
her bathrobe and diapers and soft bottoms;
lotion for rubbing her face
and bald head.
Let go now, Johnny. The moon is writing
sweeter sentences on the water
than you anyway.
Pull the earth over you now and sleep.