by Ethan Lee
Nina Simone’s voice,
telling me I don’t know what love is,
covers me quicker than the orange glow of the front porch I’m sitting on.
The cars are sleeping in the street while I write poetry in my seat
and drink down liquor and solitude.
I’m a recently divorced front-step drunk
but Nina’s voice is here telling me I don’t know how lips hurt
till I kiss and have to pay the cost
and that troubles me the whole night through.
It troubles me like heavy morning fog before the sun comes up.
The kind of haze that makes you slow down around every turn.
Then I realize that I don’t know if I’m still talking about the weather or love again