His eyes are hazel
Witch hazel in the bathroom
He tells me stories at four in the morning
Reads my poetry
His too
Says I need a purpose
He's got tattoos
On his shoulders
On his back
He asks me to scratch
In Vietnam
They cursed him
Four broken ribs
He still wanted a fight
In Marakesh
The women wouldn't look at him
I worked in Marakesh once
By the water
Making leather
The smell of fish
Baked bread
His father worked in a bakery
In Philly he said