right before getting kicked out of o’rourkes


splitting hairs, here, my honeyed hands,
glued to the glide of autumn hustle.

she makes more bird calls than i care to say,
i say,

& respond, writing words in the stalls,
intimately attached to my wrist, & elbow.

when it’s not gift-wrapped as cats & dogs,
barrels by barrels,

everything sits still, & the smoke saunters,
teetering on the edge of a gutter.