It’s hard to distinguish the fragrance of Geurlain
from that of pan-fried potato latkes
when you’re beneath a barstool
amid the boot-crushed butts and spilled beers.
It’s hard to carve an eagle when the tempest
of emotions coats the back of your throat
with a cold glue that no creative
surge can moisten nor free up nor reduce to tears.
It’s hard to say what tipped the scales, what failed to
gel, what failed to gather to you the crowds
you needed for your performances
since you screwed up so many times over so many years.