>Hyphen, Mustela

>How that lip gloss returned
your step-down’s thick honeyed haze
& i enter, cut-up
pictures in hand-built frames, hand-me-down
table & a glass bowl for keys:

It was here
you mentioned the needle
stuck in yr best friend’s arm
his sad soundtrack persona
non grata; up at the podium
in yr house slippers, nude
an audience adorned:

At the stolen breakfast booth in
yr railroad kitchenette, baptized
& dying, cold beside our lit cigarette
& i remember your name for its ghost.

Pointed ears perched, pinked white pelt
frames a fitful, hungry mouth, his flat brown fur
midday blacktop snaked with frost

fleeing breath sneaks past a matted sun:

It is neither fair, nor right.

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