Richard Frost

Bad Day

When we have a bad day—like today
on this hot, pelican-infested thread of land
beneath Florida, me stepping on your heel,
pulling your shoe off as we enter the restaurant
that won’t take credit cards, then two hours
of inconclusive lovemaking, and a political argument,
you accusing me of being a Republican,
when marriage seems an affliction,
and I’ve a rats’ nest of fear and loneliness
under my belt,
                        I end up in a room by myself
saying love is mostly repetition,
what squirrels or snakes must do,
helpless in their perfumes, an endless
zoo of sex; yet those second guesses
won’t settle in, and they escape—
deep breath, ah, bad day, a fall avoided,
always the chance of joy,
the stubborn reminding angel, and always
the short future, and always, always you.

RICHARD FROST is the author of Neighbor Blood, published by Sarabande Books. His poems have appeared in The Georgia Review, The North American Review, Seneca Review, and elsewhere.

“Bad Day” appears in our Autumn 2001 issue.

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