The Morning After

by Chris Butler

The morning after
I
forget last night.

The morning after
I
awake covered
under her blood;
reaching for the
silver .44 beneath
my unleaded head,
with each chamber
full of malicious
intent, as my thinning
eyelids close but still
envision red, despite
the sun rising upon
my nightmares.

The morning after
my
skin pinches
itself to induce
consciousness.

The morning after
I
have a hangover.

The morning after
we
awake together.

The morning after
my
dreams never come
true.

The morning after
I
forget to remember
her name,
referring to her
only as babe.

The morning after
she
swallows the pill
with a puddle
of palm water,
as I counteract
cottonmouth
with a cup of
dust encrusted
whiskey.

The morning after
I
neglect to remember
urination after ejaculation
to prevent
urinary tract infections.

The morning after
she
showers and I
consider joining
her, yet deciding
to stay asleep
until she leaves.

The morning after
she
exits, pecking my
turning cheek.

The morning after
I
embrace a frigid
pillow case.

When I awake she
has long ago arrived
for her nine to five
in the same ensemble
she wore the
day before, as
I circumcise
my latex
foreskin.

The morning after
I
fear she’s periodically
late
despite our prior date.

The morning after
that
she doesn’t call.

The morning after,
bored,
I sext her pictures.

But
the morning after
the
next I forget her number.