My face in the mirror? A little too much
trompe l'oeil for a Monday, ash left

by a forest fire. We were surveilled in
a dive bar last night in the middle of winter

by a carpenter ant who then fell into my
mug of beer. Hawkins was devouring a pizza

with so much garlic in it I could taste it
the next morning. Rhonda was our designated

driver. "You're looking out the window
the way Pete does," she told me on the way

home from the bar. Pete's her tarantula.