How many public sinks left running for ghost hands?
Your change given in foreign coins and still
coming up short. Imagine all the salt shakers
loosened upon the world; names scrawled into sidewalks;
people who hate people and work in services
you have to tip; patrons making waitresses cry right now.
Poor dear, she'll never get to disappear
until we tire of her taste. Like the minute hand
that doesn't move, our eyes' formaldehyde
keep her glued. And our literature, like her,
stares forever back at nothing much left.
When I woke in our small boat I knew
only the sound of water. His words were
something else the night had changed.
He had not noticed my sleeping
or chose to ignore it. His story, perhaps,
something he needed to release:
the black world holding him close
and alone for his act.
Though her eyes had kept like marbles,
her tongue was a broken See 'n Say:
people and places but never a story…