i am a dirty person. 

the floor is sticky again— 

an ink stain or last night’s takeout?

who knows. 

honestly, i should mop 

or splurge on a roomba— 

but i’m too cheap, too lazy, 

can’t make myself do either. 

yesterday’s storm rattled the windows;

i crawled from bed 

into a mountain of tepid sink water,

scalded my hands 

as scraps of rotting rice cakes

circled like sharks. 

i promise i’m not a bum—

really. not an alcoholic, i swear. 

amidst the grime, 

i wipe myself down in cold water

every day. 

“kanpai,” someone slurs at midnight,

syllables wobbling off-key. 

trash waits, tied up in the basement,

browning blankets locked away— 

but in freshly ironed sweats, 

i raise a glass of milk— 

white, filtered— 

and vow to quit. 

i gesture to the empty bottles—

last week’s dramatic purge 

now sits in the cupboard 

next to goji and ginseng. 

but wait— 

what about toasts to good times?

“one glass can’t hurt,” pa says,

“wine is like water.” 

indeed, by morning i’m

sober. in the pocket office, 

i cling to square laptop keys 

like a timid mouse. 

aware of how pathetic this sounds—

my fingers tremble. 

i feel my excuses ignite, 

an ache flaring in the joints of my will. 

i crave another cold wipe-down, a

bracing ball of ice or lightning—

just one more neat shot 

to keep playing 

the fool.