Last Call

Yesterday, you asked how long
till seven o’clock and now the hour
has not only arrived but is past,

the way all things crest their apex
and turn away, gradually or of
a sudden— the way summer’s

languid gold has darkened
to sepia and all the little birds
with wingtips shaped like knives

have thrown themselves against
the sky’s steel vault. Nothing
to do when bitter cold

plucks you raw from sleep
at dawn, but fumble for a cup
of coffee, the first sip

searing as the kiss you
did not want to give
but that I demanded:

and soon, all that
cold sugar falling
through the air—

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.