what indecent thing have we become?
Chain smoking over poems about
some desperate longing.
In safe houses we wallpapered
with diary pages and news clippings
trading knit caps for paper roses
as we sat at the breakfast table.
Oh how lucky you are!
you and your unfortunate
trapped in sepia tones and dust,
brave enough for heists and races.
I thought that was me there
with my foot on the fender,
hip slinging, cigar smoking gun moll,
while you slept on your lover’s shoulder--
twenty six star-shaped holes in your body.
Did he whisper anything to you
before the rain fell? Did you know
we share a birthday? Tell me,
how did it feel when you ran?
Unbuckle those shoes and dig
your toes deep into the dirt.