It is just after midnight.

I close my book

(Skeletons in the Closet,

Jean-Patrick Manchette,

p. 64) and put it on my

night table. In the washroom,

I spit in the sink,

then blast the cold water,

send the remnants of 64

down the drain. I have

never mentioned spit

in a poem before. So

this is it. This is

what 65 is all about.

A silverfish swims by

on the floor, grazes

my toe. It is neither

silver, nor a fish.

18 July 2024