Coming To

[ajcohen613]

I awake reluctantly. A ceiling fan stirs the heat,
fingernails scratch at whatever itches first,
I may have dreamt of you, though,

I remember little.

The mountains have much thinking to do,
redrawn beyond smog and Harley’s,
barely visible, forgiving the foolish desert.

Too much spaghetti for breakfast, not enough
passion in the day, not enough oomph in the air-
the mish mash of trees outside the window hunch in uncertainty.

Nameless jazz croaks from an open door down the hall
like a pickled bar hopper singing the depth of his soul,
a seasoned beggar revealing life’s secret meaning.

Empty bottles on my desk tower over the mug you painted –
are we who we say we are when the moon is so full?
Does the smell of gasoline remind you of something inexpressible?

Memory clings to an ending: you were alone
in some swanky nighttime lounge,
a bruised saxophone was screaming about a woman.

You looked unhappy, twirling a tiny umbrella
and when your eyes found mine,
I awoke itching to write myself out of amnesia. Besides that,

I remember little.

My poem is feeling pretty lonely! Does anyone have some thoughts on what I have here?