The shuffle of feet
to an out of time
drum beat. Sweat
and stink, shoulder
to shoulder

is what they'll remember
when they pay seven
bucks for a wrist
band stuck to arm
hair, and a marker stain
on the back of the hand
like a black badge.

Tomorrow no one will
remember how guitar fuzz
cut like a razor or the bass
burst in their chests,

because when the last note
decays in the back of the bar,
all the kids will have is a ring
in their ears, and a scratch
in the throat from a sound
dug deep into elbow bruise
and beer can crush.

Tomorrow they will hear it,
when paper tears from wrist,
when ink is washed from hands,
when feedback is faded
and speaker hiss cut.

The bar is slick with liquor
and the lacquered wood is worn
where elbows rub
and beer froths over.

I have spent my last dollar
on cheap whiskey that clings
to the back of my throat
long after I've left into the snow

and slush of winter streets,
holding onto some sort of
temporary beauty that weaves
through the threads of traffic lights

and glistens on the sidewalk,
like a gold coin
that fades with the night.

You're all drawn curtain
and door hinge creak
she told me. Fogged
mirror crack and cold

window draft. Drool
drain drip and
refrigerator politics.
She told me

to shape up. You're
all washing machine
spin, dry skin
and old record skip.

She told me to listen
up. You're all click
of the lock and
ring of the phone.

Carpet stain sore
she told me. All
bedsheet crease,
alright, all mine.

If you were to release
another whisper
into the mouth
of the night,

If you were to crack
the knuckles
of the chain-link
fence once again,

Shuffle across
the gravel's
dry and scratching
throat,

Shift yourself
in between
the tongues of
city lights,

It would not be the same
as the first time you tucked
the sun behind your ear and said:
“Keep driving, we've got time to ****.”

It could've been
the sweet scent

that sank into sheets.
It could've been

the peel of the red
dress from shoulder

blades, like a layer
of skin.

It could've been
black shoes

left by the door
that shone

like piano keys.
Maybe it was  

the room draped
across your back,

how you pulled
it around us,

shrinking the world
into something

we could
understand.

No,
        it was just

the hollow sound
of the closing door

that made me wish
you never left.

We waded knee deep in the puddles
of vacant lots when the flood filled
our gutters to the brim.

When the rain died down and the water pulled
itself from the streets we watched the rainbow
of oil swirl around our ankles,

walked the wooden footbridge that broke
apart under the weight of our feet,
the water-logged wood rot

splitting while rusted nails slid
out of place. We followed the streams
back to the plaza, back to fake IDs

and the ash-stained tobacco shop.
We found ourselves under flickering
lights, leaning against the rusted

siding of the family market, faces hidden
in a mask of smoke. We got lost
in the electric hum of the laundromat's cyclic drone.

They paved over it all -- covered freckled
skin with cloth and hot tar,
crushed vacant houses like hollow skulls,

ignited neon lights and street lamps,
strip malls and drugs stores
that burn holes into old hiding places.

They still try to sift through shattered glass,
silence the hiss of the popped bike tire,
wipe away the blood flower that blooms

from my scabbed knee.