i could taste the honey from your mouth
the day after
and feel the hand under my sweater
down to the nerve
to the meridian if you will
on that night
on the street when they had phone booths in new york
it had begun sensibly with dinner and
you were the show because you couldn't afford one with other actors
you told the same dull story many times, many versions like a photographer taking shots
of the same tombstone from different angles
the slab was the same with letters unchanged except that at times it made a story and at other
times, just letters devoid of meaning and nostalgia
it was my fascination with mistakes and discomfort that drew me to you
the game, the three-card monty.
you wanted to believe it was you who had snuck in through the window - a petty thief with grandiose dreams
but i saw you coming
you struggled with the latch
and dropped your jimmy tool
and i saw
but didn't have the heart to let you know
that you couldn't break my heart
but the phone booth and you in it and your hands
oh, my
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