suislide
capital hill is leaning
toward
sidewalk cracks
that hold garbage
from the stooges
who shoved hope
down a drain
while
paris, lisbon
and cheetahs
on a serengeti
shake their head
for they can see
that Rome burns
and all we have
is a kinked water hose.
____________
the floor
i sleep on is hard.
no comfort under my bones,
just a thin cover
separates belly from wood.
palms flat
on warm surfaces,
feeling the house talk
as darkness settles in.
i rest very well
as
there is no place left
to fall.
I remember the summer we would meet,
every Wednesday
at the diner in between our towns;
four stools and four leaning booths.
The building itself
seemed to lean into something,
never quite sure what.
Across from each other we sat,
feet touching
as hands stirred coffee
that never really cooled.
You always ordered eggs
sunny side down,
said the yellow orbs
burned your eyes.
I dipped my burnt toast
in the aftermath of your attack
as the waitress in the too tight dress
always undressed you
with her fuck me eyes
You never missed a bite,
held her gaze,
only laughed as my toast dipped harder
onto your ravaged plate.
You would read me poetry
from some obscure writer
that lived life harder than you.
I fed on your breath
and lived.
You loved me then.
I love you still.
I never eat breakfast midweek
and ride past that spot
often these days.
The building still leans
only now
in the opposite direction,
towards you.
Rusty Truck 