what’s a woman like you doing with a man like me?
was I that drunk and incoherent?
were my senses dulled beyond the capacity to think beyond the moment?
is this a bad dream?
am I stuck in an elevator plunging further
into that section of Dante’s Inferno
reserved for homeless men who wake up in trailer parks
with the smell of week old bacon in the trash
and fresh cat piss on the rug?

the morning sun struggles to get through dusty blinds
your refrigerator door tells me more in two minutes
than all the hours of sorry ass conversation we had last night:
an NRA sticker
a magnet that says
“This Bud’s for me. Get your own.”
an autographed picture of George Strait
a photo of you with a beer kissing your cat.

no. I don’t think I am better than you
just very different
with the morning comes a sober and frightening world
for both of us
especially when you ask me to come to your Pentecostal Church
where born again preachers
scream about present sin and future damnation
as if being in this trailer park wasn’t punishment enough for both of us.

thank you for giving me a place to stay last night
I don’t want to seem unappreciative
but I still have memories of:
better times
running water
a shitter inside the house
heat
and
a family.