Where We Live

Nights

Next door, he climbs under

A jacked-up Chevy with a droplight.

His girl rags off

The silver tools before passing them under.

Tire-scream and glasspack-rumble.

The concerto in my room goes weak.

But when they quit

It's a black quiet.

I lie down and my mind gets up

In its sleep.

At my kitchen table

He leans over a blank page --

Cut hands and cracked nails

Rimmed with slim moons of dirt.

He is mocking

Up a list of my loves:

The click of well-seated valves,

A good rock beat for the drags,

A girl beside me,

The beautiful poor white girl

Who will litter me kids,

Adjust the light, shadows for make-up.



© BOA Editions, Ltd 1982