By Charles Clifford Brooks III
In a blue button down, sweating in August,
the memory of a woman or religion,
(or both) were fading. He feels new.
Scars running towards
the heart are hardly hidden. Words
the smell of bourbon.
I imagine we’d have
met under other circumstances,
pretty sure I’d be smoking.
It would bother you then.
You’d pretend it didn’t. There’d be a conversation,
I’d never look at your breasts
while we spoke,
especially when it looked
like you weren’t paying attention.
That’s a trick.
Night ends the droll, cracked movie reels
devouring the present. Deep, deep, deep in the current
Do you feel that?
The years have worn our bones.
A man who wears twenty-year-old
jeans, brown boots, stopping every
ten steps to snap your panties
slip a Davidoff.
We’ll work on that.