If You're Not Here

If you're not here I hope to God you're in New Orleans;
the heat so high you could fry an egg.
Sunsick. Get so dizzy you walk into someone else's house
and kiss their wife,
start living their life,
until things cool down a bit.

You forgot to pay an oil bill and some
woman asked about your mother.
She's been long gone, I said.
How longs long gone? No one can say.

Living alone means using one tea bag for
three cups, washing one towel at a time.
I've got room for my sewing machine now
and can knit something fierce, all night, some nights.

Yes, if you're not coming back I hope you're in the dark
French bars sipping something bitter. Alone
like you like it. Your wide tongue grabs a cube
just to hold something while
it melts until it's gone.