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Sonnets From Other Lives: Justin

In the morning --they said--you know you’ll feel better.
In the meantime Justin felt like crap.
Her text was a post-modern “Dear John” letter
that left him feeling like he’d just been slapped
in the face. I didn’t see that coming--
he thought over the second whiskey sour.
Or was it the third? He was becoming
number & more empty by the hour.
His new goal for the night: oblivion.
The guys were generous with sympathy
while having --he knew--way too much damn fun
medicating Justin’s misery.
By the fifth round they were all playing a game
called “Make the J forget the bitch’s name.”