St. Mary’s bells are ringing over Covington. Past the Pike street railroad overpass, through the veils easy in the windows, I invite their song into my apartment where I am writing. The taste of grape cigarrillos stick terrible in my mouth in the morning, tongue sexed with rum from a flask. Head drunk with reminders of all the imperfections I’ve found and learned to love, my body’s weary from 5 AM sulking with DVD’s & the rainy night that few felt. I am writing at breakfast eating summer sausage, sharp cheddar cheese, yogurt, bread and on my second cup of coffee wishing I could afford cream.