Heaven's Enough

I drove you in the sun-stuck heated
front seat of my ’95 sedan
and kept each memory of that place
in a rusted, put-together file cabinet
where they still make and sell and
deep fry Mars bars.
It’s somewhere.

I keep the key on a pewter ring
in a different drawer—dusted-over,
unopened since the Sun was taught
to dawn. From there, I saw a man
crawling bearded through the gutter
painted as a monster from grime,
leftovers and throw-aways.
He clung with estranged,
probing digits thick around
a brown-bagged bottle.
I witnessed true fear that day.

I share it now, with you,
wind-sung hair blown back.
Reaching out to you,
with not only a hand
but with a plan to rest it
on your thigh.

Vermisse den Mittleren Westen.

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