7/21/2015

sitting on the wooden bench in the middle of the park the
couple across from us rolls something
to smoke the “hooligans”
(who am I? That was me months ago)
congregate on a bridge overpass
a dog lies down

your tears do not fall steadily and well
practiced like mine,
in a cacophony like an abscess
in a concrete dam wall

clutching your shirt, cursing masculine dogma,
my fingernail pushes a little orange seed of water and you
blindly take out a pack of menthol

you offer me one– you never do
I take it, light it, burn it out after five moments,
I press my face against yours so our tears blend, this nodule of saline congregating merging like a bacteria

as it falls ahead on the ground
our tears, one
hit the Silent concrete on the grey New York

fat rats  play on the nettles behind us.