Secret Hangover With Angela Pierce  

It’s either your heart that’s broken
           or my head                   and
shuffling out your apartment door
after a tidy glass of hangover milk from
your belching fridge – your ice box
gripped me the night before, velvet vice
and                  I find myself still struck
by your industrial strength
refrigerator                  magnets.

           They shift the flow of my blood.
           I swear.

I keep your key in a secret compartment
stitched into the inside of my jacket
and                 the church bells put
meadowlarks to singing and the whole
shit symphony of the Sabbath world,
puts me to thinking of digging it out,
jiggling it three times in your
dead                           bolt,

           climbing out of my skin
           and slipping back into yours.

© 2008 Michael Appleby