All the sudden the dark night hits,

like my failed sobriety

after so many nites like this.

A snail,

a ham,

thanksgiving dinners.

The way my father rubs his hands on mesquite chicken.

The flies live in swarmed communes in my apartment,

telling me terrible lies.

I've heard some have as many as 6 eyes.

I flap my wings,

pretend to be something similar to them,

but in the late afternoon

I find myself

swatting that broom,

and the dog keeps on with her barking.