Stainless Steel
No home, he says,
eyes sliding up the side
of my cheek, glancing off.
He means this-does-not-hurt-me
but I feel the icicles
gather there.
He grins and I build
stainless steel curves
spanning tumbling rivers,
morning touching skyscrapers
in a galloping race of fire,
window-boxes with neat rows
of coloring-book perennials,
a guitarist, a curb-side
case filled with absent quarters.
He speaks and I crush glitter-snow
into muddy gutters; I paint
shadowy entranceways, corner
restaurants with tottering old waiters
and pizza dripping shimmering grease.
His hand against my shoulder
is split-second recognition
on crowded streets, neon puddles,
a spider-web of echoing
subway caves.
When zippers chase themselves
around his bags, he sees distant
billboards and hesitates;
He leaves, streetlights winking out
across my eyes.
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