I make bad decisions when I chase whiskey with beer.
And after I got in the shower and twisted my ankle up
over your shoulder and stuck my foot in my mouth—
even after I spit out some foul things—I couldn’t get rid
of my never-healed-broken-toe-size-eight-wearing foot.
I wanted to tell you that when I think of you I think of
your dirty socks, sheet lines on your face, rolling brownouts,
and the time in Fishtown we thought we maybe saw a UFO.
I accidentally made you cry hard as we looked for our mail key,
when I asked about joint health insurance and what to do with
a half dead rat I left lying in a trap behind your refrigerator.
You and I are like stray leaves floating down the Delaware, green
boat-like surface tension and rot. But thanks for folding
your grandma’s quilt over me when I was feverish.