What Makes You Think You’ll Get It In
You told me to call into your radio
to get us tickets to the St. Patty’s show.
Snow cereal around us. Sky a spilled bowl.
Standing in the milk I chugged my last Keystone.
After the show I bought frozen macaroni
and more beers. When you passed out on my couch
my roommate said you were “My Man” I said “I doubt
it.” and left the noodles on your dormant belly.
I went to the roof in my red snowsuit.
The snowcloud had nothing left in it but its skin
still held the muted city orange in.
I think you woke up and left into that
March night with your blue puff coat on your back
hidden and slippery as the muffled city.