Thanksgiving

I left my shoes
knotted
and sideways
on the waxy
floorboards.

Living their own lives
away from me
as I crawled into bed.
To let my head
writhe aflame 
in the small hours left.

From roaming
I come in,
each night
different.
Each night a new
city smell
on my jeans,
in my hair
to fall into bed
alone. 

Each night.
Some nights,
receipts in my pockets,
others the scraps
of fortune cookie
wisdoms,
and I sleep 
with these trinkets
to ward off
the empty holes
in my rooms
and my socks.

And if Thanksgiving was
honest,
honest as the Chinatown women,
I would say I was thankful
for the sleeping pills
that spare me
from living with my thoughts.