Albuquerque

Sometimes I would happen to forget my place on the sofa
And lose my spot
From where I was reading
A passing whiff of mammatus cloud,

Beneath a pink balloon of hydrogen gas that by square knot
And yellow reel of yarn
I had secured to the cartoon sketch of my left thumb
As a ward might tie to a punk child.

A way to keep myself from completely being grounded
If not caught high and dry
The night I would keep tossing
Under a dumpster

That served mostly for a foul-smelling rock–such hard luck
Being the upshot from receiving the steel-toe boot
From the belly of my seventh sober trap.
In the desert polis of Albuquerque,

The city to which I had travelled
By the grey hound of a Delta.
The wobbly takeoff from Del Ray, FL
Much like my own attempt to steer a b-line

After copping a few nugs of nectar
To bring back to the hive.
The touchdown through the glass window
Of the garage

My way of hushing the drone
And saying, ‘Honey, I’m home.’