there’s no love song
like the boy
who opens your car door.
who stands when you enter the room.
the boy who puts a warm hand
to the small of your back
as you go through
the revolving door.
that’s the boy who says
whatever happens
whatever it takes
i’m there
i’m yours
and we’re in it
together.
it’s a simple thing
but that’s a boy
i could let in.
forget the love songs,
babe, let them
blow by
like the empty wind
they are.
there’s no love song
like the boy
who lights your smoke
because he’s
just
that
way.
the boys gather
around the car
that holy of holies.
the tobacco smoke rises, an
offering; they nod
along with the liturgy;
it’s a bang bang thud thud
speakers shivering glass.
you can feel the bass
against your heart
right where religion
is supposed to press.
i watch from my balcony
as a joint makes the rounds
this my body, my blood,
they pass cervezas
and speak in weird semaphore
through the waves of thump rattle boom.
they look so young
and every warm night
they’re out there
as faithful as
the grannies
who hobble to mass
three times a week
in their black
and swollen shoes.
rained like
we were going to
get a boat
and go two by
two
and i started
thinking:
who would i
go with?
screw it.
i’ll stay here.
i’d rather drown
lonely
than see
you again.
you came over
when you wanted.
you got
what you came for.
you left
when you wanted to.
and you tell me
you felt trapped?
please.
the only thing trapping
you
was that i wasn’t going to
pay for your pleasures,
finance
your life.
i’ve got my
own life
to pay for, a hell
of an installment
plan, between
god and me.
so go away
and figure out
how to pay down
the principal on
your own
damn mistakes.
when a man gets angry
because a woman
won’t give him
money
he says
“trapped.”
fuck that.
i’ll pay my own way
and you can
mourn
the chance you had
to buy some
quality.
i had it.
a perfect poem.
but there was life.
there was the job
the errands
the cleaning up
the business of
going on
and on
and by the time
i got around
to it
everything evaporated.
can’t even remember
the keyword.
god and virgin
why cover up
the essential
with so much crap?
i know there’s
always more
hiding
inside my bones.
but i wanted that
one.
and i resent it
so badly
i could murder.
but who?
so i sit here
take another drag
let the smoke out
and write this
for you.
don’t wait.
grab it
when it comes.
you’re thinking
about me.
stop it.
stop driving by
my building.
i don’t look
and i don’t notice.
stop asking
my friends.
they don’t know
they can’t tell you.
stop thinking
buzzing
like that
tiny bone
in my ear.
i can’t feel it
i don’t like it
i won’t listen
i haven’t forgotten
and no
i will not
come to the door.
i sit on my balcony
aching feet up at last.
this is the moment
because i can sit
watch the old couple
with their hibachi
and their silence, everything
already said;
watch the boys in loose groups,
showing off for
girls with teased hair;
watch the breeze touch
greenery and smell
other people’s
dinners. i can see
the cars slide in
and out. each one
a story, each neighbor
a complex little world.
all the dinner i need
is here
on the balcony
with the amber liquid
in the jd bottle
and the smoke from
a pall mall.
i worked overtime
for this. the sun’s
ship has sunk
and the light
for almost an hour
is magic.
for that hour
nobody bores me.
yeah, it’s worth
paying the rent
on this crappy
little place.
i take another drink
take another drag
and wait for dark.
i drove all the way there
and when i reached the river
tea-brown and deep
i got out.
slammed my door.
i sat on the hood
one smoke, two.
the ring glittered
like the sunlight
was a spear-challenge.
the tree whispered. shade
speckled my arms
like bruises, dappled
my breasts like
your mouth.
when i could stand
without shaking
i drew back my fist
let it fly.
you taught me
how not to throw
like a girl.
the ring sank
without a ripple.
i smoked another one
and drove back home.
no call.
no letter.
just a pack of smokes
the burn deep in
my lungs, and the
bottle.
i guess i’ve vanished
or you never saw me
or you never think of me
or you ignore me.
at least the booze
is always here.
funny, but i don’t
even drink. i just
pour a shot. when
i’m done thinking
about how it
hurts,
i dump it in the sink
where it won’t hurt me.
and i light another smoke.
hey, nobody’s perfect.
the shouldn’t call it getting old.
they should call it:
learning to speak
either less or more.
learning to trust
the right people.
learning beauty isn’t
in a magazine.
developing faith
in your capability.
figuring out where
your energy should go.
no, they shouldn’t
call it “getting old”.
they should call it
surviving the jungle
of youth.
panting
wide-eyed
red in tooth
and claw
i’m getting there.
