Did you hear, they’re
closing the doors to that
slick red burger joint on
fifty-second, o blurry
safe haven, where we’d
stammer our orders and
you’d paint my spirit in
bruises, pressed violets,
just to pass the minutes –
I wish, sometimes, I
didn’t remember everything,
could keep the way we
cradled one another on
those evenings of infinite
descent, but set free
the brutalities, could wander
that street in some future
without looking at that
deli, that laundromat, and
remembering it crimson.
I wonder if your fingertips
wander those scars, too,
can you confess your
crimes, even alone? Or
are you the first one
you lie to, pretty up the
picture, make villains of
your victims, and how
many crushed boys
littered the sidewalk after
I finally got up to go?
Lucky me, lucky
breaks in the bone
aching in homage to
some coming winter,
portent of gentle footsteps,
lessons etched in broken
skin in the photographs
yellowing in the unkept
drawer, an excuse for
the caught breath, the
setting everything down.
michael king 