FOR ROY, WHO KNOWS THIS FEELING AIN’T RIGHT
Let's talk about heartache, Roy,
while the hurrying wind blows against the sign
with the missing R. Let’s stand outside of ‘ite-Aid,
smoking, waiting for the friend who'll drive us
out to where the blackgum trees fade
from the road. A radio’s playing the clown,
you cry for a pretty woman,
mine's a tattooed boy.
Roy, how do we tell each other of the amplified
nights, planes leaving the dusty fields of Texas.
Nothing here but nickels and dimes,
the all-day sleep of nowhere.
Look at this jacket, flung over the chair,
the emptied closet, the open door.
All night I dance alone in a room
of lit amber lamps, ashtrays, warm beer.
Roy, the shades are up. Neighbors look in,
see my arms moving in the air.