I used to smoke. I know I brought home
skeleton Cajun lungs to tape to your
satin sheets. I realize you hid
your pursed lips because I’d break
them in half or drop them into dishwater
for a good soak. But I used to water fountain
myself. Water fountain is a terrible habit.
And yet, I’d crack the McDonald’s parking
lot in my day bed and fire crackling cloves.
My too cool would stink, but you never
noticed or asked. Why didn’t you ever notice
or ask? You had other carjackings,
I know. I may have licked it though.
No more ocean salt kicked in my face.
No more moonlighting. No more one armed
men shot by their wives. Closed mouth
humming with steam. There’s
something to never talk about.