J.P Wiser’s out of a plastic cup
One sip at a time
Empty cans of
Canada Dry Club Soda beneath the bed
I don’t know who put them there
But I know a man who swears
He never drank from an open bottle
And never drank water
What makes this place remote
Is not the train station that shut down years ago
Not the only light bulb left in the room
Not the cockroaches and rats and the filth
It’s the picture of you & the way I hold it in my hands
Across the street: a Woods Full Serve Gas Station
Trucks stop in neutral, motors humming
Their headlights shine through windows
Igniting the room with false & cold light
I press your picture against my chest
Oh, Maynooth!
Give me back darkness!
Give me back the blackest of nights
& Mr. J.P Wiser
Numb my senses
so I can drift off
into obscure dreams
Where I touch your thigh
and look at the shimmer of light skin
whenever your hair parts.