The regulars were a no show.
So here we are, hairy, ragged,
full of too much Old Milwaukee
& taciturn Minnesota winters.
Invite us into your ears, your heart.
You can’t evict us, we’ll just camp
on the roof outside your sister’s
window, playing unsteady ballads.
Have you looked in on her lately?
Pain nests in her bones, in her
dilated pupils. Hell, maybe it takes
fuck-ups to recognize another fuck-up,
to offer grace that would self-sabotage
if it knew how beautiful it was.