of an honest woman,
floating through MY city,
but she is a liar,
because she is cute and gorgeous,
but cunning and vindictive.
I smoke a cigarette,
got some vacation quarters
in my jeans,
which I use to tip the bartender
for the club soda
she gives me with lime.
she knows she's pretty,
and I wonder if she wonders
if she is really doing better in MY city
than I ever did?
I have the confidence
for these types of things,
but I sure could use
some hands
to comfort me.
does she think about me
from her lover's bed
while they feign bedside manners
of Gatorade and vulnerability?
I fear I am doing better
with no hands
to comfort me.
she floats through MY city
but she can't believe
she is still here,
playing love
like chutes and ladders
I smoke another cigarette,
and I am on fire
—for real—
my sleeve catches flame
on 14th street.
her heart
is also the star
of my movie,
long removed
from my life,
despite this
I continue
to create sequels
to our short story.