post-whiskey binge
we snapped awake as
my cell phone alarm
shrieked the arrival of sun-up.
We were entwined,
hungover as usual,
cursing the cacophony that was
like God chewing glass in our brains.
You said
the alarm tone
must've been
composed by a
Swedish
minimalist
torture
artist
whose other
greatest
hits
include
“Neighbor's Vacuum in A-minor”
and
“Car Alarm Quartet in B-flat.”
You were always so hilarious
in the morning.
This one, I'd remember it later,
shopping for heirloom tomatoes
at Whole Foods,
giggling while running my fingers across
the improbably colorful fruit:
red, yellow, purple, orange,
some striped,
some still caked with dirt.
But for a moment I lost myself,
I squeezed a green one too tightly
my thumb piercing the delicate skin
the juice oozing out
settling into the creases of my knuckle
stinging in a fresh cut there, still red.
You called this deep comedy.
