In this period they say: love is easy.
she listens, because her body responds
to this story. People can be stories.
Sit here, let us talk about the guy over there.
.
Tear up my skirts as I draw my leg
over the final huddle. The price looks
like gold.
The economy is chipping.
.
It reaches a meltdown the same time your heart
does. You crashed someone. Or something.
Rode your knuckles through the net,
You are free to breathe but guilty, still.
.
A couple sits next to your drug-filled body.
They look alike, but one bears a moustache.
Your mother nods to understand. Her eyes
hover upon your name like a bad rain.
.
Father scratches the moustache. He is a cat
in a wheelchair. He blinks with his
apocalyptic lapses, folding your return
in the pockets of his dejection. He calls,
but it is not time yet. Tomorrow, perhaps.
