Milk man

The milkman who lives down the hall is lonely again. I smelled it in the milk this morning. He is carnivorous and thick-pawed. He is lumbering and thick as sauce. I am just small as toast. I would need to climb him just to touch him and I wouldn't be back for days. I won't be back for days.

Somewhere

I am in the city of asphalt and well-placed advertising. He is just a friend of a friend, a small moment on a busy street.

He looks like the one who sold me away for a wonder, a want, and idle theory. We write the small print later, score the margins and realize we're going to have to lay down later tonight. Somewhere.

On the curb, an old woman shuffles by, holding the secret of a shuffle. Somewhere the sound of curtain rings on a rod. She holds her breath now when she wants to remember something. The details will save you when the wall of water comes.

It's his neck. The sort of length that seems already accomplished, pulse and warm. Not like me, with my fingers only good for unbuttoning things.

the day outside

Down in Little Tokyo, the three counter women smile before they smile. An air of possibility always helps. A good set of biceps can forgive much. The wrong underwear can end time. How to tailor the day to fit?

In the living room, her skirt is on the wall again; there it goes. An open window can be an end to the story, just not now with the trees all bare and arterial.

The curtains between here and there, the taxis waiting outside in a line to take us somewhere. Anywhere. How question marks always seem to overstate the matter.