You never could play guitar,
voice like the disapproving clicking of 27 tongues.
Everything was covered in dirty fingernails and you never slept.
Afraid vultured constellations would pick through your
quiet parts and leave you whittled and witless
in your bed sheets.
You couldn’t remember the names of stars,
night sky an equation you hadn’t learned.
Sat still at 4 way stops,
dreamt of snakes, and emptied bank accounts.
Became the white sneakered clean-up crew
Stacked the chairs and vacuumed the carpets until
Your fingers became brittle clear bags
Holding Bursting unrequited dilemmas.
Tiny things you didn’t know how to recycle
Paperclips, the business end of a cigarette,
a steel pick slide, a perfect note,
The promise that you’d learn how to fly.