I've been here. Likely, you have, too--coming home so late that it's early, but too early for the headache to have started yet. Nothing looks right, but everything is at least somewhat familiar. Even hands and feet look borrowed, maybe even stolen--by whom or why isn't known and probably shouldn't be.
You don't look much like
my city this a.m., Chicago,
gray hangover streets still
slopped over with Saturday
night's transgressions--syllables
hissed too close to ears tipped
redly with heartbeats and lies;
fingers rummaged through
hair curling north and east
and wherever it wants in
the humid; feet just barely
above a shuffle stalking
their Stoli way back.
Maybe the lack of yellow
and blue above is just
the way of whatever's
in charge saying "It's
okay. Really. It'll all
still be here when you
open your eyes again."
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