Watched the humidity
asphyxiate the moon,
saw its definition offer guns
to an insipid apricot monotone.
Standing there with skin exposed,
I touched my rug-burned knees through tattered jeans,
and thought about how I needed
something more than this.
Something more than crickets
choking to their suicide,
and hunger tight-roping my muscles into spasms.
The boredom from two days without sex,
and a hand that didn’t have to find,
clever things to do,
from a quarrel of time zones
that google couldn't logically map
abandoned me with the night
downtown sang to us from inside.
And now all I have is stale jazz,
And a butter knife.
It seems it will be awhile,
waiting for a transmission,
out of Prague.

-Nathaniel T. Hughes, July 2007

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