My League

After my eggs
each sunrise saw
more hope
liberally applied to areas
of constant blood flow
clean clothes
clean contact lenses
soiled only by distortions
of who I am
what I want.

A week ago
she was a dream that ended
in the crushing embrace of pillows
out of my league
assuming I even understood
the sport.

I used to take my hope off
like makeup
early in the evening
smeared on cotton pads
decorating in and around
the wastebasket
watching the rest of it
march down the drain
before pulling the covers of
another stolen night.

If I read the paper
I’d know that
hope only robs you
of right now.

Today it remains behind
my morning reflection
with the pills and razors.