Ali Shapiro
Lately the trees
seem a little bit desperate, all garish
reds and pinks, a last-ditch
effort to convince
the sun to stay—
but it’s almost
November, the sky
a sunken belly, the air
only gasps,
and I’m drinking
again, which unfortunately
I’m still very good at,
and I bought some new jeans
and they would look terrific
if I wanted to look like that,
and I read the whole newspaper
cover to cover, so now I know nothing
good is happening anywhere,
and I went for a jog
in the direction of your house,
which is six hundred miles from here,
I should be there soon
if I never stop jogging,
which would actually solve
this whole problem of what
I should do with my body
now that you’ve given it back to me—
burn everything in it, this box
full of your things, this house
you built with my own two hands.