we sit in traffic
in sight
of the second
exit home.

pop-punk blares
in the blurred pumping
of a song still sung.

That slow-fast song,
the lyrics
to Liar
Brand New too loud
and always
and often
out of tune.

We were foxes and hounds
in the novel
where they both die.

We were taught to learn
then forget,
then imitate,
imitate and remember
the boxes
we stuffed
our memories in?

I opened it once
then tied it.
pink ribbon.

East of 17th and 79th

She tells me
with sleep
so close
yet so
far away

of the times
she’s spent
with other men as I cup
her right breast
in my left hand.

It wouldn’t bother me
but these times
were the times
she was meant
to lie with me

so I stand,
leave the room,
find myself
on a street
where gone
are the green
grass lawns of glorious

on a street
where the water
we used to let them live
is now graded
in the gutters
of salinated homes,

and where like
our sensibilities
the cacti will inevitably replace
the lavish, garish
fields of faith
and hope filled dreams
that fill the screen
of every rotting room,

and where
we’ll continue to use the sod
of our salient,
drunken teens.