Where dodgeball victims congregate.

It's kids in casts
riding bikes too fast.

It's cigarette butts in the concrete I mixed
and those who step out of the shower to piss.

It's trying to use a plumb bob
on a windy autumn day.

It's references caught and dropped and missed
since we know that you know that I know
and don't care.

It's not a bandwagon
I'd expect to see you on.
It's keeping it that way.

It's going into the bookstore
and bumping into no one.

It's not being able to look across the table
and knowing what it means.

It's none of yours and all of mine
and from here on out that's just fine.



It's hard water in a hotel shower
and boy did we take baths in there
though we barely fit
with armpits smelling of moldy tents
and tired organs played just right
to the tune of 10,000 disapproving mothers.

It's my toes curling in my shoes
and how she won't like me saying it.

It's making the beast with two backs
as we both show our age.

It's plucking the crumpled photo
from the trash can.
(She didn't know I couldn't part--
the last act of a desperate man.)

It's a phone call at one in the morning
over a Dostoevsky story that got her down
and how right then I knew
all over again.

It's kids in casts
riding bikes too fast.
It's a drunk who drove his truck
kissed his driveway, then passed out.

I won't let me
let you down.




Currently reading:
"The Poetry of Pablo Neruda" edited by Ilan Stavans.