Saturday rain, and the trapped vapor clings
to the roof of your coffee lid. Outside
the burning of your cigarette floats back
to smoke your face cold. It fails to transcend
the portrait of your carelessness, 
your young, bookish loss. In the barred trash 
an umbrella sits shot, stubbed like a first-world dracaena.  
Your Newport specter dances in his underwear, rummages through 
your Barbour coat. Water slips 
from the lonely wax, the exterior claiming futility 
as nonchalance. The thoughts, your triumphs
merely hover, tortoise-shelled—and how you’ve failed again 
to shed your need for love. Robbed by and from oneself,
the faculties are as embedded forgetfulness were,
a shadow you see but cannot lift to confirm.