He left a napkin at the bar,
Soaked with the sweat of his drink.
In runny ink (the shade of my pen's)
He sketched America on her head,
Boldly proclaiming the best of herself
As her blue-blood trickled down—
With the consistency of —
Her abrading rocky *******.
Below, this renegade had writ
In scribbled (nearly foreign) print,

"The one I love is dead."

if you ever happen
to be in the area,
look for the boys with the drums.
and ask him if he remembers
the girl with the violin.
and ask him
(if he remembers),
if he remembers
anything particular
about her.
and watch his face scrunch up
as he can't remember why there would be anything special
about her.

then
look for the girl with the violin
and ask if she remembers the boy with the drums.
and watch her face grow pale
as she remembers the boy with the drums.