Last night at the dartboard
I aimed with the accuracy of the last three
cigarettes ever, again.
The fist pitched flush at ten and in the olive
while the others fell to the floor
Today, outside the bookstore I stand with shoulders askew, peace fingers with nothing to do but to scratch at the plum patches along my shins.
But today is September and if you aren’t cooking
something spectacular up in there that skull
what was the heat for?