Jupiter Outside my Window

2:45 in the goddamn morning,
sitting with an empty coffee mug and the crumbs of a biscuit packet,
scattered like dead soldiers
on Shayne and Martin’s kitchen table.

three of those bastards, maybe four—I lost count somewhere between the second and the third refill—and now my mouth feels like the bottom of a birdcage and sleep’s run off with some cheap whore.

the coffee’s still steaming in my veins,
keeping me wired to this little wooden chair.

out the window,
Jupiter hangs there,
fat and bright,
mocking me with its steady glow.

how many poor suckers think it’s just another star?

I did, once, until my friend Pete dragged out that telescope one drunk night
and shoved my eye against it—

there they were—the bands, the stripes, and that little red dot,
a storm of dust and gas that’s been tearing itself apart for three hundred years.

three hundred years of rage.
makes my insomnia look like a nap.

big meeting tomorrow, suits and lies and coffee that tastes like battery acid.
I stare at the fridge, and think about cracking a few beers,
letting the foam slide down and dull the edges,
those deadly super-strength tinnies from the co-op.

maybe then the bed won’t feel like a trap.
maybe then I’ll sleep.

or maybe I’ll just sit here watching Jupiter burn holes in the dark
until the sun comes up and kicks me in the teeth again.

this goddamn life drags
like a hangover at noon—
storm in my skull rages