MISSING YOU
ON A WALK
I hadn’t said a word
in damn-near an hour,
which suited me just fine, feeling
thick, warm rolls rising from
soaked-up concrete
to push back up the summer rain
without my commenting
on how I wished it was
the heat off your morning breath.
I took my eyes from the trees,
rolled them into my head,
saw you in the back of my mind,
pressing in like a bank robber,
a statue sans nameplate in the
middle of the room
(as if you need an introduction),
and I couldn’t help but think
of that frail, brittle body
underneath your bold, black dress
that you wear like an armory
and the holes in your chest
it’s supposed to cover.
ROACH IN MY
BEDROOM FLOOR
Urban bastard
like Lucifer, barred from his
hometown,
sleeping in cities
that cursed his very name,
but tolerated by some fair folks,
whom he’d promised a good night
out,
he phoned his mother from a
midnight-driven
bottle of apple pie
moonshine
and prayed for her rusted
forgiveness,
smelled like hell and stayed
out of sight
when she let it ring,
didn’t dare dial back.
41ST
Your neck tenses
on your way up the stairs
toward your old
bedroom, rented,
lined in crumpled-up
book suggestions
and receipts
from gas stations
and Valentine’s Day candy
we never got around to eating.
The bed sits
still in the corner,
and it’s impossible
to imagine your sleeping
there
or anywhere
when your spine buzzes
and your chest falls flat without
air.
So you stay across the street
where your lips are your own.
You don’t talk much
about your old bedroom.
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