Sometimes one of Milly’s gifts gets drunk,
makes a fool an absolute asshole of himself,
comes home late and stormy and breaks things,
mostly his own things. And next morning
can’t remember any of it. He’s sorry
but he doesn’t know what for. He can’t tell
who the enemy is and he doesn’t have any friends.
There’s a list hereabouts and he’s not on it.
His subscription’s cancelled. In the dawn,
sleepy, bladder heavy, the first of the birds
waking in the blue light of his brain,
he gets up, discovers just all the books
floating in the bathtub, and the kitchen
covered in broken blue and white crockery
and the wife of those years saying Why?
Why do you do these dreadful things?