You said I deserve better than what you can offer:
view of a crab boat, always under repair,
the half-sunk tug slumping against her lines,
cramped space, hard bunk,
and a year of solitude.
Let’s not think about that tonight.
The bell is ringing at the Locks like neon in the rain.
Up the street in a wet shop alcove
a man plays an electric fiddle --
notes like the wild end of summer,
a flock of birds twisting all at once,
the smell of gun oil on your skin.
Let’s walk the train tracks and hold hands,
and say to the bums sitting on cement blocks amid the ballast,
Hello, Good to see you, Nice night, Take it easy, man.
September 16, 2010