Renga Bitters

saucers stacked on the stove
(the sink is already full)
stubbled with brown mold

dishwater, rancid flotsam
settling on the drain like silt

still has his boots on,
and no pillow for his head--
but piles of laundry!

dreams bubbling up through the black
tar pits of hungover sleep

moist socks and sneakers--
rich earthy exhalations
from their snoring tongues

even the skin mites grumbling,
"ach, it's sunday, let's sleep in."