Red Cups

When I was young we caught ants
 (we threw ping pong balls in red cups)
in red cups
 (laced with white dust, some)
                     . One got stuck
 (got stuck)
on the edge, his head cut off
 (on the back of my throat-)
still biting at air, his body
 (stuck under the cup)
hidden from the bright blue sky.

We never cared.

Fast forward circa Twenty15-
a Florida winter, maybe spring,
one year sober, clean:

We were itching
for fun, I felt
that familiar tension, that

-ness of
chest, the rapid

shallow breaths, so
we went on a

to buy the cups and the
ping pong balls. So back
and forth, this life, no?

We placed the cups, two triangles, each
made of sicks
The Freudian slip goes uncensored

and we filled them with

water, and we played
music on Wilson's Bluetooth stereo.

It was my turn
to play a song, I chose "The Heart
Wants What It Wants" and I danced
like I never did as a kid

to the sound of splashing
water in red cups.