Filled with Birds by Ben John Smith

The drink
doesn't work sometimes.

It props you up,
keeps the ball rolling
but it doesn't work.

Not really.

She looks for villas
in bali
on the ipad
while
I pour another white
wine.

A pile of books at my feet.

Vegetable soup in the kitchen.

My garden
sits in the precise
night light.

Dark.

It's not a gamble.

It's a throw of dice
with out the spots mattering.

With out money on the board

the dice don't work,

the drink doesn't work
but some how,

she makes the wheels turn;

and I wake up
for work on a Sunday
to pay for our wedding

because she makes me work.

The morning
is filled with birds
and I don't worry bout things
I can't change

as the boys fall from a pub
or a woman's bed
or a park bench

and pile into our work truck

to smoke cigarettes
from a crack
in the window

and at this time in
the morning
I have nothing else to say.