Morning After

I wake up with regret and Rubik’s memories.
I wrench my brain for an algorithm. Chunks
of the weekend still in my throat, the backstage,
side-door life missing from the pit of my gut.

This misfiring, rum-soaked mind engulfs me,
forces me to trudge around the math of hours
and events. What time did the bartender cut
me off? You played it off, ignoring my drunken
unicycle act, juggling my insecurities.

My swollen pride lies, a broken balloon,
a latex memorial waived off with no need
for a eulogy. I know it's my own fault.
I crawl back to bed, back to the place where
I don't chase unless I know I can catch, take
out the piece that makes me act on wanting.

The drizzle is cold and a drop or two has caught
the paper. Perhaps the ink will run, and this will
be like every other stupid thing I've done.
I cling to the squirming notion.