The hours I’ve worked have fallen in love
With someone else’s time.
I drive on the charcoal and mustard colored turnpike
Thinking about the way tender veins
Sleep under the skin of your hands
And the way your nails are soft fresh petals.
I can’t remember the last time
I walked the autumn streets of childhood.
Spending so much time in windowless rooms
Washes away the memories of fresh air.
When I was a child, I used to build plastic models:
Harrier jets, Apache helicopters, the Intrepid aircraft carrier.
I spent days gently twisting the parts from frames
Gluing them together, adhering decals, painting edges.
The clear cement would stick my fingers together
No longer allowing me to snap them at good ideas.
Or I’d accidently break off an important piece
Only to squeeze out more fresh glue
Onto miniature fragments from life
Press them all too hard
Until they snapped off again.
A tiny plane on the deck, a rudder underneath, a propeller.
Twist, glue, press, dry, snap. Repeat. Over and over.
Until I pushed so hard I cracked a hole in the hull.
I’m an adult now and nothing has changed.
Pushing, snapping, breaking, getting stuck together.
If I could simply dance with your soft skeleton
One more time, perhaps I won’t crush it all into a pile of dust.
Or, maybe I should just meet up with St. Christopher
Order us a pair of Bourbons – neat
Stare up into the snaking hips of a stripper
And talk about all the things we’ve lost.
