When I was young,
I used
Watch behind the
As men walked up and down the street.
Wino men, old men.
Young men sharp as mustard.
See them.
Men are
Going somewhere.
They knew I was there.
Years old and starving for them.
Under my window, they would pauses,
Their shoulders high like
Breasts of a young girl,
Jacket tails slapping
Those behinds,
Men.
One day they hold you in
Palms of their hands, gentle, as if
Were the last raw egg in the world.
They tighten up.
Just a little.
First squeeze is nice.
A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness.
A
More.
The hurt begins.
Wrench out
Smile that slides around the fear.
When
Air disappears,
Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,
Like the head of a kitchen match.
Shattered.
It is your
That runs down their legs.
Staining their shoes.
When the earth rights itself again,
And taste tries to return to the tongue,
Your body has slammed shut.
Forever.
No keys exist.
Then the window draws full
Your mind.
There, just
The sway of curtains, men walk.
Knowing something.
Going someplace.
But this time,
I will
Stand and watch.
Maybe.
