bottom of last night

like a late night game
of scrabble
all these lonely letters
and can’t make
a decent poem
let alone form
a word
turn on some jazz
basie pounds out
one o’clock jump
but it feels like hank
cold cold heart
wine bottle almost
empty like scraping the
bottom of last night and
the night before
when screaming out
the window was drowned
out by passing sirens
at midnight