It is February 14th
the flicker is drumming the stucco
my coco is thick and I study the secret green
in my beloved’s brown eyes,
in my dream I burrow my lips into the mountain soil
now I wipe cacao from the crevasses
and bear myself to the day with hope between molars
wedged as apple skin before it breaks
loose black silk wanders the city like volcanic ash
and The People eat pasta primavera,
sip sour wine, trace fingers and float
above the homeless guy on St. Francis
or the one “livin’ on a prayer,” reminds me of dad
at the shelter and what lyric he’d bold sharpie on cardboard
maybe, “there must be some kinda way outta here,”
or something from Taxman.
His fingers are still swollen
working construction on meth, I’d bring him jelly donuts
he ate 2 days later
every gratification delayed when you’re on the bottom
rung and I swear the second one up is 100 ft tall
but everyone believes you’re Alice
surrounded by eat me cookies
and lazy, no less.
Mom makes scalloped potatoes from the middle rung
though I rarely see her I smell her trauma layered
somewhere between onion, russet and cheese
the luxury of carpet and heat, a fat dachshund
my friend sees and calls me rich, I steal
refried beans from mom’s pantry to bring dad
she hates it though they’re expired
I bike bags of beans across town and watch
the cement deteriorate
watch the brow stiffen
touch the sweat of my father’s withdraw
when it floods my palm and tells me
of a poor man’s panic, the spore of addiction
manifest as mold
everyone throws bleach around and leaves the window closed;
one room crowded in desperation, food stamps,
donut boxes and scratch its, hope and everything unmet
one room with the slow rise of carbon monoxide, unseen
poison of walking around a sidewalk sleeping bag
and finding it inconvenient.