After several knocks
I opened the stall door
and there she sat,
folded in half and snoring,
head on her knees,
jeans and *******
pulled down to her ankles,
oblivious to the gift
her boyfriend had left
after unsuccessfully trying
to wake her:

a single red rose
in a vase at her feet.

From behind the bar
I'd seen her stagger
into the bathroom.
He'd run to the store
after asking if I'd watch her
while he was gone.

She was a working girl
he'd rescued from one of the brothels,
and they were getting married soon,
but he was uncertain...

He'd returned proudly
with the flower,
asked where she was,
and I pointed.

A few minutes later
he'd walked out,
said she'll probably
come around soon,
tell her I'm at that bar
across the street.

He'd gone out the door,
and here I stood,
in a women's bathroom stall,
me and the shadow
between her thighs,
and the rose,
and several petals
it had dropped
on the ***** tile floor.

I sighed, bent down,
picked up the vase
with one hand,
touched her shoulder
with the other,
and gently shook her
until she stirred.

A tap on the shoulder,
I swivel in my chair,
leaning back,
fingers stroking chin stubble
as I take her all in.

A pale leg
protrudes through the slit
of her long black dress.

A glance,
and I raise my eyes
to meet her blue gaze.

She ***** her head,
looks quizzically at me,
as she leans back,
strokes her smooth chin
with slender fingers,
mocking my pose,
and whatever expression
I’m wearing on my face.

A dare in her crooked smile.

I shake my head,
like a dog shedding water,
break the spell,
ask how I can help.

With her hand
she beckons me
toward her desk,
her English still too broken,
my Russian even worse,
though I do try sometimes,
as she gives puzzled looks,
and occasionally giggles.

She sits,
points at the problem
on her computer screen,
as I lean over her shoulder
close as I dare,
breathing her in.

And seeing only
the reflection
of our faces together
in the glass.

Unable to not peek
where I shouldn’t,
fingers clicking,
stalking fibrous cables
at light speed
in the wee hours,
seeking clues
to your disappearing act
as I toss back
beer after beer.

Deciphering posts
like a savant reading code.

Aha! a photo:
you with a new boyfriend,
some *******
with a face tattoo.

I think I recognize
that neighborhood behind you...
that street sign there,
but it’s too blurry to see.

He won’t last, anyway
do I warn him about you?

Let’s check out
his page....

A gun nut? Really?
AND a big diesel pickup
with chrome stacks like a semi truck.

Compensating, no doubt.

I smile at the thought
of you, after,
unsatisfied
by the thing
he’s compensating for,
with your lying pillow talk.

He leaves, and
you reach in the drawer
of the nightstand
for your little blue toy.

Is this better than
driving by your house
at three a.m.,
counting the number
of cars in the driveway?

Or banging on the door,
drunk, or smashing a bottle
through the window
like I would have
when I was still young
and really *******
alive?

It sits tall in the lobby
with curves like
a woman's hips
under a tight fitting
evening gown.

Blue as lapis lazuli,
streaked with white veins,
flecks of gold
and shot through with
jagged hairline cracks.

It's been broken,
perhaps more than once,
but someone
gathered the pieces,
and with patience
and trembling fingers,
glued every one
back into place.

Now it sits
reflecting the light again
in fragile wholeness.

It’s Art Fest downtown
and I’m wandering
along with many others,
among the white tents
set up in the street,
looking at metal sculptures
like mangled insects,
and paintings of fragmented people
with chopped up faces
and body parts strewn
like puzzle pieces.

A shrill voice
draws my gaze:
a woman with matted blonde hair
sitting by herself on the sidewalk,
having a conversation
with at least two
other people.

“What did you do to my son?
Where is he?”
she yells,
turning to face one,
then the other.

I’m watching this,
unsure what to do,
unable to look away.

People walk past,
headphones in,
looking at their screens.
Two cops show up,
begin talking to her
and for once,
I’m glad they’re around.

Walking on, I turn down
a quiet side street
away from the main drag,
back toward the lot
where my car is parked.

A man covered in
faded blue prison tats
is walking toward me
with long strides,
looking around,
arms swinging in big arcs
with fists balled at the ends,
his jaw working sideways
like a crackhead on a ******.

The back of my neck tingles
as I take my hands
out of my pockets,
remembering the video
I saw last night:
two scumbags in the Bronx
knocking some poor guy
out cold just for kicks,
high fiving as he lay
unconscious in the street.

A few steps away,
he nods, says
“What’s up bro?”
I raise my chin, “Sup.”
We pass.
I throw a glance
back over my shoulder
as he rounds a corner
and disappears.

Here’s my car.
I get in, turn the key,
and roll the **** out of here.

Last night,
before sleep,
your picture glowed
on my little screen.

You were out with friends
at a concert,
smiling, laughing
and dancing.

Later on,
the pangs I felt
when I saw your face
became a dream gateway
back into your world.

We stood there
listening to the music,
smiling and laughing together
as we did many years before.

Then I put my arm around you
and you pulled away.

You can’t do that,
you said.

It’s true.
I can’t.

Not without the help of others,
each of us builds a fortress,
like building walls
around a desert mirage,
or a mist rising,
evaporating in sunlight.

And the world teaches us
we must guard these walls
that surround our
misty treasure.

Some great souled men
have claimed
that the walls
are not really there.

Some even lived
as though this were true.
Usually they were killed
for daring to do so.

They say
if we sit still
and silent long enough
to tame this wild ox
of a mind that yanks us
from one thing
to another,

we will see this truth.

I long to see it.
Sometimes I think I glimpse it
for a moment,
but then it vanishes,
just like that mirage,
just like that mist I defend,
with my sword drawn,
standing at the gate.