They ended up together, you know.
I hear they are happy.
He cut off his ponytail
and they live in Kansas.
He teaches photography
to college students with big breasts.
She sighs, and writes poetry
(not as good as this, however).
The days I remember
took place in his turquoise Geo.
Winding through the serpentine canyon,
autumn leaves crushed,
flavored wind,
in search of a landscape
that could be appropriately converted
to an 11 x 20.
And for reasons that I cannot explain,
I remember all the coins he saved
in a jar.
He saved enough to register his car.
There were quarters, mostly.
I used to sit on the floor of his
closet-sized room,
with my legs crossed
and my heart exposed.
I drank in paint-thinner and sweet sweat,
because he was always working the canvas
(and working me).
The only time I wanted to devour a man
was the time I was with him.
We would listen to music
with our eyes closed,
and I would drive him to the store
for another beer.
But then…she appeared.
She was helpless.
Quite sad, really;
more than I could tolerate.
And I watched myself
D
I
S
A
P
P
E
A
R
somewhere into the flaked wallpaper
and the musty crawl space under the stairs.
She dedicates poems to him
(not as good as this, however).
