when the tree bark snags my winter coat
and tall light posts flicker coded pleas “come
home, come home”
a police cruiser surges onto the curb
lumbering tires spit loose gravel and leaves
“JUST DON’T FREEZE”
megaphone boom from a crack
in the door, ka-chunk a boy proves
he belongs to these bricks
with a clever piece of plastic
clutched in fingers of leather gloves
squeaking tight against the
heavy metal door handle, heavy
boots tramping snow from the soles
my head pinned to the earth by a half-globe
of knotted tree branches and scarred trunk
(KJ + DL, fuckGETpussy, rm 122 4 ****)
clawing me back for old obscenities
i wish my crossed legs under this cold-smoothed
picnic table could stop knocking to the beat
of the third floor’s 3am rave, knocking to
come home
ka-chunk, you belong to these bricks.