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I’ve thought about writing this poem for months.

I don’t know why. It’s only a split second

When I’m on my bed

On Staten Island

Sweaty and tired

With the window open

She passes me her cigarette

And as I take it

We make eye contact and her

Face in the shadows, a slight frown

Eyes bleary, teary? Don’t know, should know

Her mouth open a little

She’s a bartender near where I work

But she also lives on the island

Was born and raised like shit

By a schizophrenic mother

On the island, she left home at 16

Her younger brother only dates MILFs

She enjoys her job

She has raw intelligence and reads long books

We had some adventures together

Walks in parks, gritty bars, mediocre museums, late-night drives

But in this moment I know it is

The end and I think she does too

And I know I will pay for this in one way or another

And I think I’m still paying

But after this moment I look out the window

And I hear the shower turn on and

Five minutes later

Before she’s finished

I’m asleep.

 


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