It was the kind of attraction
That made you blush, look away
And feel justified
In each other’s self-loathing.

Or you could argue that it was a whole lot of nothing
to the tune of weird waiting room rock and roll
that blasts out of every open door on this wide-open prison block.

It starts where we tried to kiss as though the black and white
movie would go Technicolor on sheer emotion alone. It ends
at whatever town has finally proven that the world is indeed flat.

I think it was someplace in Alabama,
that would explain the fallout.
At that point it was just a matter of running in opposite directions
and worrying about attachments at a later date.
Pending survival, that is.

Then we're both lost souls.
I'm pretty sure you're just a kid with a limp
and a bad attitude, but I'd be a spectacular fool
if I didn't find something remarkable in the way
you showed up for romance with a fast car
and a pair of shovels in the trunk.

I thought I looked good for a change. The hat alone
took years of living in small town flea markets to find.

But then you showed up,
and it was like I had suddenly dared a veteran
of the local pet cemetery to a contest where the winner
was the one who could drink an oncoming ocean without falling over.

What can I say?
My id cleans up alright.
It was a bargaining chip, really--
what for is still being sorted.

I was content to let you rot me from the inside for a while there,
my mental masochistic foreplay and whatnot.
I had to wonder what your story was though.

Probably a line from a movie
that was then expanded into a couple of novels
that didn't make a whole lot of sense
when we sobered up and realized that the Pacific Ocean
was still three thousand miles away. Same as yesterday.
Same as the last time you wore a thin mustache, a fine suit
and moved that gun around the back of my neck
as though violence was gonna solve everything.

It probably would. We don't do well with kind words
and clean-cut dance moves. Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire
would be deeply disappointed in how little of the town
we manage to burn down each and every Friday night.

I'm a homebody by nurture;
I prefer my drunken dance parties
in the comfort of a living room,
just to give the neighbors an excuse to complain.

It always took a few pints of homebrew
before we'd let each other close enough for that
smooth static touch you somehow managed.

So I guess the real miracle is how
much we can fit in your bathtub. The least of which
is a long evening of the world passing by the window
in an obsessive bid to set some kind of record
for going to hell and back in a long blackout year.

I'm also beginning to suspect
that it's not just my blood under those purposely
long fingernails of yours.

There was never anything for you to worry about
before Alabama.
What was the likelihood you would end up
renting in the same converted mill building
and working in the next cubicle over?

About the same as the odds that I can stay
out for days at a time and still walk up those
seventeen flights of stairs to your door
like a young man.

If I can only make it up fifteen
it’ll be up to you to know I did my best
and open the door to find me
sitting down and catching my breath.

11/17/2010

Author's Note: Miss Anita tends to make me look like a brain-damaged amateur, but that doesn't make working with her any less of an honor. For a change I'm not going to indicate which stanzas are mine. I think it's more fun for people to guess.

Posted on 11/17/2010
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