My Last Hangover

She wakes in the morning to look

out the window at the spaces in the air

where there should be birds.

From the bed I watch as she stretches,

her shoulders changing colors

in the light. "This is the last time," I try to

promise. "It's okay," she tells me,

rubbing her eyes. The last time

we visited Chicago the saxophone

player on Michigan Ave. told her

that she was an ocean. You're an
ocean, babe.
The next morning

we shuffled into the brightly lit

hotel lobby, the only couple in our

pajamas, everyone eating pancakes

in the graying dawn. Now it is the last

time ever. She turns to the window

again, raises one arm above her head

to check her underarm for stubble.

In a few hours she will kiss me good-

bye before letting my hands drop and

climb into her car, leave for work,

release me back into the world again.