Underneath the overpass on Brighton Street just south of Sam's, we talked awhile.
The race of cars and dustbowl trash, Familiar sounds and walking fast to beat the storm.
Protected by an overhand, the streets to shine in sideways rain, in summertime.
A pile of print out on the street, the message blurred in bleeding ink, a memory.
The cigarettes that lost their steam, the coffee mixed with nicotine, a bit jittery.
She says, " Take what you get from me now, we're burning the evidence.
Waste not a word or a sound, nor attempts at eloquence
No baby, I'm not impressed.
Take what you get from me now, we're burning the evidence.
Waste not a word or a sound, in minutes we won't exist.
No baby, we don't exist."
Further south to have a drink, that Spanish bar, the wine that tastes like fruit.
Bloodroot lips and mallow eyes, strategic sips and smiles disguised, it's been awhile.
Acknowledgment comes hours late, the rain has bleared, the cab the wait, new furniture.
The bed, the boughs, the pillow case, the ringing bells, the trim and lace, the obvious.
Tempted sailor lost on tides he should have never crossed, a siren calls.
A sailboat that's rocked and tossed, the body floats, the will is cast below.
And in the depth of sunken dreams, a treasure chest, a sea of green to math her eyes.
That stare into the unlived lives of everything you want but wouldn't try,
You'd like to try.
She says, " Take what you get from me now . . ."