I am always doing this. Walking around the old neighborhood, always
sixteen, moody and stealing cigarettes.
Baby, even when we’re fucking I’m back there with the dogs
and trash cresting
around the bus stop like a wave of what people can afford.
In the rain I’m wearing my brother’s jeans, a book of matches in my pocket,
afraid of the people here, each match
tip melting into pink slime.
Even when you’re swallowing me, honey, even when I’m standing
in our kitchen getting dinner started, or playing with your son
I’m there. I’m not getting beat up. I’m not high,
not really. I’m just walking around
looking up at a sky that looks like a closet, hating the birds
because it doesn’t feel like they belong, just the sky and the street belong.
Just the rain and the boys
on the corner, boys who were born here, death tucked away
their bomber jackets, death in their teeth and ears, wind in their
pockets, when they smile
it’s not like when you smile,
their faces stretch out like a police state, their shadows
covering the whole block.