I’m sitting in my mother’s
Friend’s
Driveway,
Trying not to look like a creep.
While my Honda civic
Is hardly reminiscent of
*******,
My nervous eyes
And shaking hands could be.

Finally, they arrive,
And I realize
I’m wearing no make-up, my hair is wet,
And there’s paint on my arms,
And I have a girlfriend.

Mother
emerges, smiles wide.
I meet her for a hug, notice
Her eyes straying to my left ear.
“Do you like it?”
Long pause.
“I’m indifferent,” she replies.

And I think, if she only knew
About the black, black ink
On my right hip,
She wouldn’t be indifferent.

We make awkward conversation,
About apartment details,
Cable,
Cable bills,
Moving,
Gas and electric,
Avoiding anything evoking emotion.

As she walks away she turns,
Asks,
“Do you have money?”
I don’t say anything, taken aback.
“I wish I could have bought you dinner or something…”
“Mom. It’s fine.”
“No, no, no, here’s some money,
Tell Amanda hi.”

“Alright, I love you, mom.”
I say has her heels scrape away.
“Love you too."
She calls over her shoulder.

And she’s gone.

And I’m free to do as I please,
With ink, piercings and girlfriends.

But I wish she knew,
I wish she could love
The free me too.

Crimson is the slow smolder of the cigar end I hold,
Gray is the ash that stiffens and covers all silent the fire.
(A great man I know is dead and while he lies in his
     coffin a gone flame I sit here in cumbering shadows
     and smoke and watch my thoughts come and go.)