by Howie Good
Time to crack open that bottle
the previous tenants bequeathed to us.
We can drink to whatever you want -
lack of sleep, importune prayers,
another day of freedom from the landlord’s
fretful knock – then tumble into bed,
our bones loosened, our minds in happy
disarray, despite, or perhaps because,
it’s now light, and there’s a kind of war
outside our window, and the invisible sniper
in the gaunt bell tower is always watching
with bloodshot eyes for a clean shot.