There is something about this city.
About this bar, about bar stools
in cities they go for a drink.
Decidedly the White Russian is
a perfect choice for imperfect
nights in corners of a city’s shadow.
At the edge of the bed they sit two wrists distance.
The covers tightly tucked like Tupperware.
Feet dangle close to the carpet catching drops
of liquid from a lash evaporating into thick air.
I could not fix you.
We took the 27-piece home repair tool kit
and held the allen wrench
and twisted the cap screws
and sanded through edges
that were already soft.
At this bar, in this city everywhere
else his hands have trouble with silk.
So take the book of poetry.
In between the stanzas is
an acceptance, an apology,
a memory to the bedroom
where we broke:
covering faces in colorful fabric
and dispersing into a