Midnight, and I stare
at an empty tin of tobaccoless pouches,
a paperback on the science of adult attachment
I’m noncommittal about. Shame returns
as if by the open window,
like a naked crab
scuttling around for a carapace—
armor against the April chill that lingers
like a cloud of vapor.
Where do they go, those few clear days?
William G. Gillespie lives and writes in Brooklyn. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Boats Against the Current, Red Eft Review, Olney Magazine, and The Drunken Canal.