Bread At Night

Bread and a block of cheese
and one small glass of absinthe.
Pout it all into my mouth and let me slide.
I’m not fussy about where I end up.

I’m not fussy about ending up on a slab.
Fat in the arteries, pain in the chest.
I don’t wish for it, but I’ll accept it
if it’s what comes my way

after a night with good bread, fresh
and warm, a block of cheese
and a solid, sharp knife to cut with.
And the green milk of the absinthe

sets me apart from the rest of the night owls:
all of them out there thinking pizza or chips
and a beer and a late night talk show.  I’ve got
the knife, the cheddar, the white flesh

of the bread cut thick and soft,
the shot to warm me and steel me
against the winter night.  I’ve got a pen
and a knife and a good meal.

I’ve got an eye on the slab where I’ll end up
and I’ll make myself comfortable in the mean time.
It’s a mean time out there in the dark
but I’m fed, I’m lit, and ready for what’s coming.