With the sting of pavement
warming beneath us,
you and I ran from the wet sky.
We found a roof to smell its roots
when history found one another.
He broke into your mind
with a hand on your barstool,
bending the image
of that familiar green.
Budding images of bedded nights
flew around our held hands, as I read
“Free Omelet Tuesdays” and watched the taps flow,
blissfully distracted and mindfully absent,
while you heard of places unseen.
The drenched mind spoke from
somewhere exotic and not free.
You looked in an accelerated mirror,
rough like the corners of your
conscience bellowing through
lines and lines and lines of men again.