Turning 49

Martini glass and tumbler idle on my nightstand —
two blank stares parked on creaking barstools,
nothing and yet everything in common.

One glass is dry, like scripted, uninspired words;
its toothpick that once held gin-soaked globes,
awaits disposal, like an adolescent conquest.

The other collects a drop that pools amber light,
begs me to savor the sip, as if single-malt scotch
were the cure to my affliction.

The weight of my blanket traps my legs,
shackles me to the bed I have made, unmade,
made again — no wonder I can’t run far in my dreams.

I kick my covers off in straitjacket rage,
only to realize how ridiculous I must look —
body exposed, aching, sagging.

My head sinks deep into my pillow —
my confidant, swallowing drool and secrets —
while a faint polyphony of sirens and traffic
attempts a lullaby.