MYth


I pull down the knight’s armor chain fence on the storefront while you set forth with that penetrating, selfish smile, nameless in this Philadelphia winter, we touch hands and enter into sin like air into blown glass.

For my next trick, I’ll give the rat its tail, the sky its shine, the woman her apple.

This is the evolution of our creation myth.

You echo into the cement with your tap dancing answers to my severe questions with their attention to detail and moonshine delicacy.

This is forever.

We eat slices of greased pig pepper pizza in the pretty, pulsing glow of the drunkards’ last moments before mistakes become unavoidable, unforgettable.

Unforgiveable.

I am careful with my words even as you dismiss every one as noun, verb, pronoun, proverb, homily, allegory, filibuster the floor of our decision making process on which the good senator from Pennsylvania would like to make a motion:

To recess.

Or to renegotiate the terms of our contract.

I am exhausted.

Take you home, take the 34, if it should ever come, take and take and take until the giving comes naturally and I thank you for your patience.

This is normal.

I have brought you to your doorstep, like the magician’s rabbit back into the comforting fold of his infinite hat, and into emptiness you will submerge, affectionate with your goodbyes, a showman even after the curtain.

I know you will call in the morning, the sun will rise.

The sounds of taxis wandering aimless follow me home into the starlight, the clack of their tires over metal grates rises like applause, a grand exit for a good show.

Only to shutter again.  It is 3 am.

For my last trick

This is love.


This poem and more available in the collection, The Road So Far, available on Amazon.

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