When I Drain Trickle Against a Sidewalk I Don’t Hear
There was a bird I don’t know monkeying crows; it flew from one tree to far neighbor. It had color but all I saw was black. There was a car hovering on wheels above guttered water. Eyes that neither one of us saw but I said, When I touch you I apologize for nothing.
How many times is too many I love yous. One and then two. Many times. I had arugula on my lip but I swear I still felt your sexy. I sogged the bread with balsamic but you still said it was good. Mom said Love to y’all. But then she had to see Nobi about her hair and said goodbye.
When I’m on our porch and you’re on your way home I’m not talking on the phone, stretching my legs, or smoking a cigarette. Why it takes so long to make a left turn here, or parallel park a compact car.
If we met Beyoncé would we take a picture with her? Would there be time to choose a filter? And who would have been adequately insured to rent me a tux. You could use my cummerbund as a night mask. What a “Word!” you used.
Peyton Burgess‘s first book, The Fry Pans Aren’t Sufficing, is due out this summer under Lavender Ink / Diálogos. More on Peyton here.