He looks for scraps of the third floor
in the tide, and he’s tired the whole time
of seeing pieces of the moon drop
into the muddy, encouraging distance.

The bars are closed. She wasn’t at any of them.
These beach houses have been cradling
his strange face all night, and this is the last one
in a long row of hotboxes.

In a place that seems to skip the somber morning altogether.
Moves right on to the late afternoon,
and he still can’t trust a town that seems as though
they’re being encouraged by early Saturday dusk
for the very first time.

Either someone stole his bus ticket
in one of the small riots from earlier,
or he traded it for information that turned out to have
its own rushed process of elimination.

He can’t remember,
and he can’t find her,
and he can’t stop filling his red party cup
with this drink that everyone paid five dollars for.

But then you could have as much as you wanted.

Almost trips on his feet standing still on the back porch.
Keeps thinking of the woman 8 months pregnant.
Winning every shot contest in the kitchen.
Laughing with her eyes closed.
Resting her head on one shoulder or another.

It’s not that she’s familiar,
but she’s kept him from going into the kitchen,
leaning against the fridge, closing his eyes,
breathing deep,
and realizing that she probably left the coast years ago.

But she’s probably still there.
And there are probably still teenagers in the driveway
who think they can live in those cold, slick cars forever.

Still doesn’t know what he’s going to feel
when he’s finally walking along the highway again,
and the eyes of small worlds aren’t staring at him anymore.

Really doesn’t know if he wants to leave at all.

Those five dollars are going to run until they bleed poverty.

She might walk through the door,
and she might let him be selfish enough
to think she looks twenty years younger.

04/15/2013

Posted on 04/15/2013
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