If I Crash My Love Goes with Me

Excuse me. You've parked in the towaway zone of
my confidence. Until I'm archaic I'm attachable.
To covert wars with your black underwear.
To a rain that makes duct tape out of May.
The Me as Lincoln logs with feelings: solder
resin. Think of my picture open in Photoshop.
When feelings are easy—but then I'm in a
bus on the Hudson Expressway with a peeled
roof. Choke on my granola bar. Shaving kit
spills down the aisle. Mexican priest with a
gash and moans. A man holds a bushel of his wet
hair, bloody, rolls it up in a Snickers wrapper
and leans out the wreck's window to smoke it.
"This is an induction of a crash!" I tell my
court reporters, my career in tastes, my how-
itzers of pantyhose and yellow dresses in the
night. Some of you I've given perfect games.
Or seared a wink in cinnamon, honey, cinnamon,
for a great supper on TV trays with sex too.
I don't want a song vendor beside my turnoff.
I don't want a ride to the hospital, thanks.
The guests I love have done my dishes for me.
If you want to know whether I'm in love with you,
put an olive in a bowl of Dr. Pepper, put a blue
berry in an even larger bowl of coffee. Sodium
floats, bonds ceaselessly, shudders up against
pilgrims on the beach and mixes with the salt
they've brought. This started with you inside
me, which is something I'd like in a tinkle box.
I called you up because I almost died almost
significantly, and isn't there anyone to vouch
for the pennies I've spilled under the pillow?
When I die, haul a mattress to the quarry, wet
sheets, then please make it up like I just rose.
If anyone can do this, it's you. Congratulations.