From the Fishouse

They released me today. At home
my mother is waiting and gives me
a fifty and a hug and

had to get back to Oklahoma.
Jim and Gary come by later.
Come walk with me.

We talk about the last girl I slept with
and how she’s dealing. We don’t
talk about ourselves.

Jim wants to see,
so I take off the bandages. A scar runs down
each wrist leaving a trail

of jagged skin in their wake.
Gary sees something
in the way I look
at those scars,

studying them.
The road map buried
under flesh. Later
we pretend

nothing’s wrong. But I’m living
in nostalgia – the moment I’m in
is already gone

and I’m looking ahead
at the open
spread of trees

off 17th and Wanamaker and
it’s not much further away.

I’m invited to stay
the night. I imagine

riding those veins
home, tracing

their origin back to the heart –
a violent muscle that threshes seventy beats
per minute even at rest.

Jim has Monster
spinning in the stereo
and one more night is all
I have.

Play me a song
before I go.

At home I take my aunt’s keys,
two bullets and
all the money I saved
and find a pawn shop

still open down 17th and

I’m imagining those trees
again.

Six more minutes

till I park the car,
escape into the gnarled

branches of trees that all point
toward the center
of old dirt under

the lights
of dead stars.
There’s no moon
tonight but I can still feel

the worn ivory
grip. Everything around me

used
up. One more
use,
one more

night.
Hurry,
before the sun

shatters me

to pieces.