3.24.2012

On Petting Burning Dogs (When There's No Option C)

Cigarette ash
falls to the tip
of your black leather shoe
as you knock on his door
being sure to stand to the side
even though there's no peephole.
Too many detective shows
watched growing up
but you won't solve this one--
You're no Dave Duchovny
sex-crazed or sober.
The light was on, you saw it
from the street, but still
no one answers
this wood thick with paint
and years of nicotine stains
between you and the truth.
It's odd, smoking in the third-floor hallway
of a derelict tenement, but no one here will mind.
Tobacco's the least of the sins
on these premises, especially this late at night.
This is what happens
when the day's good deed
brings you to the scene
of a crime.
So you leave
but still love him.
He drinks Coke
but not Pepsi.
The ancient case is cracked:
We're all our worst foes;
some go to extremes.

A train coming at you
(not being conducted
by a prominent male figure
in your life
since that'd be too predictable)
with time only
to push one out
of the way:
the junkie you've known forever
(and haven't they all been
one way or another?)
or an innocent bystander
(who may as well not have a face).
All they find are your shoes
on the tracks, feet still in them
and a few Marlboro butts
smoked by the lone survivor.
(Don't feel bad. There was
no other person standing there.
Is there ever?)
Even in dreams
you die alone.

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