3/9/14 untitled draft

i build you out of ***** dish towels and empty teacups

clean ashtrays and yellow porch lights

i painted you with cheap restaurant crayons

wrote you with letters off unregistered license plates

decorated you with my mothers stretch marks and stick on earrings

i folded paper airplanes out of tomorrows newspaper

i sent you messages tied to the legs of sparrows

that both forgot how to fly nor knew where to go

i kept our memories under the fireplace

the landlord wouldn't let us use

i carved your name into the dining room table

so every time i had my cup of coffee

i woke up and saw you

Request permission to use this poem