Poem II

the other day i wrote a poem

but i was drinking in a red room

and i think I lost it.

now someone will read it under the dim lamps

and wonder why,

on the back of a tiny menu,

there is writing

beginning with the words:

“I’m so scared of imaginary things”

and continuing with nightmares of spiders

and waking up cold.

i forget how it ends.

drinking this time wasn’t like the last time—

with the whiskey sours

when grief made me scratch my own hands

bloody.

this time it was just for fun.

until i lost the damn poem.