you locked the door behind you what else
could i do? you were young, i wanted more.
in his suicide note K dreamed about
Freddie — admired, envied — never locked
silence then, wind and highway lights crawling
now i remember you posing against
painted brick wall posed as imperfection
i had the locksmith come as a favor
he couldn’t have known, what else could he do?
i thanked him with cash, i can think of worse.