Sunday afternoon, Oslo.
Pavements fit for ice skating
Rather than her high heels.

I am crutch.
Sun-goes-down red onto
The solid wetness.

As we reach the tram stop,
She throws a gaze directly into
My eyes, fingertip finding the outline

Of the fresh tattoo on my chest
Barely visible at the edge of the
White tank top under my

Alice in Chains tribute-style
Flannel shirt.
"I love the way it covers up her

Name," I know she
Thinks but doesn't
Say, and I

Agree. Sometimes the temple walls
Of a man's body's skin are no
More sacred than the

Bucket of paint sitting ready
Outside a basement bar's
Gentlemen's toilet cubicle, just

Waiting for
The
Janitor.