Where We Live

Nights Next door, he climbs under A jacked-up Chevy with a droplight. His girl rags off The silver tools before passing them under. Tire-scream and glasspack-rumble. The concerto in my room goes weak. But when they quit It’s a black quiet. I lie down and my mind gets up In its sleep. At my kitchen table He leans over a blank page – Cut hands and cracked nails Rimmed with slim moons of dirt. He is mocking Up a list of my loves: The click of well-seated valves, A good rock beat for the drags, A girl beside me, The beautiful poor white girl Who will litter me kids, Adjust the light, shadows for make-up.
© BOA Editions, Ltd 1982