Smoke ash Sundays

Whatever was left of the celebration had crusted at the edges.

The cake sat forgotten counter top, all icy and inviting, a knife jabbing into the crumbling mess. All around beer bottles glow green in mid-day whatever, lukewarm left-over brew buzzing at the bottom, waiting for flies to come.

The headaches are worse than this time last year, but the noise is about the same. It’s that same subway stretch that leads to take-out and gifts to buy come snowfall, time to take a look. The old neck’s still sore from dance floor whiplash, even after an unfaithful swim.

Hair dries with time and toweling, text messages come and go. An outfit change here and there, a switch from beer to Jack. Tables full of friends and strangers, two bed pillows, one fan.

Wake up to coffee, sing to a stranger, walk through the park, go to bed and try again.