As the Moon Climbs

He could give up so many things,
it’s hard to choose. Almost midnight
and the bottle of bourbon is empty,
girlfriend not answering his calls.
He would give up the tattoo of her name
on his left shoulder, but his boss gave up
on him last week, so he can’t afford it.
The lights of the all-night laundromat
filter through thin curtains, and he sees
spinning clothes, an old Asian woman
nodding off on a hard bench, her head
fighting gravity, giving up to rest on her chest.
A teenager dances as she tosses thongs
from washer to dryer, tight jeans, loose shirt
drawing the eye to curves that blur
behind a film of tears. He drags a hand
across his face, more wrinkles than yesterday,
more gray hairs, dirty shirts underfoot
and that girl so close he can smell
the watermelon gum ballooning from lips
pink as candy hearts. He gropes
for his last pack of cigarettes, shakes it,
one rumpled stick left. He lights up,
inhales cancer and exhales gray peace,
taps the burnt end absently into
an empty glass. Hard to choose
what he should give up, so he won’t. He licks
a calloused fingertip and dips it in ash,
smears it on his forehead, succumbs to sleep.

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