tuesday's nightstand

i awake
set my coffee on tuesday's
nightstand

it being only friday the mug falls
to the carpet
it being my old apartment there is
no carpet
it being the past it may not have
happened this way at all

so maybe it fell
maybe it left stains
stains that would have meant something
yesterday
before i cared
about tomorrow more than carpets
actually by stains i mean girlfriends
by care i mean goddammit!
and by tomorrow i mean maybe it
didn't really happen this way
at all

the weekend walks in
takes off her coats of bullshit
hangs his toast and traffic jams
all over my shabby apartment
makes out passionately with the blender
for seventeen seconds and passes out
under the toilet
this being a love poem
it doesn't really have to end this way
maybe it isn't really love?
maybe it isn't really ending