Thursday, October 13, 2011

Least Ways

Least Ways

The kid sees the girl
when he takes dinner
at a store front
Christer shelter...
Let 'em be desolate
for shame's reward.

She bitter-fingers
a sweat-sticky
green cotton dress....
muave plastic walls
for naked memory.

Bearded street
minister: To every one
a crust of bread,
an okay chunk
of food bank
canned meat,
a cup of Kool Aid.

Dead end
desert town
off some barren hills,
like a long
wicker basket...
yesterday's Safeway
florist corner roses.

The girl settles
next to him at supper,
crunches down low,
like a chilled shadow...
startles him...
raises up his
stunted hand
to kiss it slow.

Raised-up to be clutter.
What about you?
She follows him
around the block
and does it again.
The boy's got
a sack of stolen
brass door knobs.

They joke
about the clogged
gas station toilet
at the scar-edge
of town.

Four or six miles
north along the highway
there's a nothin'-much
wood fruit sales
back door
out in the weeds.

The boy
takes off
a red-on-black
furniture company
thin jacket.
She slips
her arms
into snaggy sleeves.

All night
the small voices
of possession,
the slap-slap
of bad semi
tires on the highway,
the warmth of two
bodies tipped
toward love.

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