West Meadow Street, ‘99
It made sense at the time:
she praised me on my poised demeanor,
beside the asphalt. I stood unyielding by the
streetlights, on Meadow, for many nights,
walking till my heels bled.
Shoes full of gore and
squealing with my every step; the context of lost
descants; the shrug of a shoulder; the making of a
war wound, placed in my own head. I gained while
I held her (only). I hated our rehearsal; I hated how
often she made me wince, just speaking what it was.
She lacked spirit.