On the way to your house this morning
I drove past a man vomiting up the contents
Of his stomach on a street corner.
Yellow frothy bile
The color of alkalized malt liquor
The color of guts giving up
A body that says, no more.
I hope it wasn’t an omen.
I hope it wasn’t you on that corner
Purging the last of me from that hidden curl
Of small intestine where I’ve been clinging like plaque
Sending spasms toward your throat
Leaving a sour taste on your tongue
That was maybe something good once
Like how I can’t drink gin anymore
After that night on the turnpike.
I hope the burn doesn’t ruin it forever.