the morning after

shaft of moon-beam,
cold light striking
cold tile
floors swept clean
of history
(at least for now).
he sleeps, oblivious —
another lost night
in town
down at the bar
swapping stories piled
high like crushed
beer cans
stacked precariously
along the dull brass rail,
just another day
of broken
chances and wasted
dreams. your bruises
will heal
(on the surface,
at least)
as tomorrow’s dawn
brings along
one more monotonous
apology
that always fills
your ears
the morning after.