After a Sunday service,
I, a man of no anchor and leftovers
Stood out on the bridge, looking at tide
You, with a name that hears like a summer month,
Beer in hand, nicotined lips, dared me down
By another wet bar I got you first
And crushed shards of glass.
From the deck, you rang me so we could meet
The week I wasn’t whored up in paid hours.
I gave you a lemon pig and you kneecapped him
And snapped an ankle so his unwaxed belly
Hit the floor. The clove eyes got yanked and
Flicked at new misery.
Almost a full day had vanished
When my letter reached your door
And you, maybe ‘cause of fear, pouted
And put your foot against the letterbox
And slept there
Curled and blocking the sea.
Four days after. A decision was giving me
The plank. I walked out,
Got to the edge, saw the sharks
With blank stares and the scraps from another
And your phone was ring ring