Eyes on this block are different. Mouths, unlikely to crack.
I drop the gloves that have grown from my pocket. Black, moist.
I forgot they were in there. This loaner coat is too big all around,
belongs to the guy who wants to make home with me. Crazy thing:
I can kind of imagine it. Nothing up here by way of nightlife:
sidewalk, Burger King, two small parks. I haven’t met many children.
Sunday, the bathwater jiggles with hymns; keys rattle weekday mornings.
I tell him: “Throw back your shoulders!” His head’s always bowed,
not always in prayer. I know he confuses discretion and hiding.
I’m aware of the cold.

The Cream City Review