by Damon Hubbs
We did not wake early on Sunday morning
Surgo ut Prosim, not our motto.
My teeth taste like 17th century houses,
my piss, a waterfall of spawning salmon.
Last night you were so berserk with glee
I fell in love twice outside Hasseltine Hall.
You told me about all the French professors
who were prisoners of war in WWII,
how Malory and Cervantes wrote in prison.
We said it slant, our Sunday jailbreak
hatched on Saturday. Brush your teeth damnit.
I need a shave. That hunting cap is your life story.
Uh-huh. My brain, swollen like a pumpkin
in a broken carriage. Now the hall and parlor
of our day expanded, everything so urgent, talk
talk talk —overcoat weather, northeast gales,
potted mums on front porch steps, desperate widows
on widow’s walks, football games with Yale,
the shadows pass, in and out, the black walnuts
drop like candlepins.
We walk the lower deck of Bradford Street,
pick our brains, hungover
comparing things we know to things we don’t.
Planets jump through planet-sized hoops.
Time has its way with us.
Farewell, Diana. Farewell, princess.
We watch the geese put their heads together
faraway then part
company.
Damon Hubbs is a poet from New England. His work has appeared in many cool places.