Dear Student, because you are dead,

by Nathan Lipps

there is an empty table that no one
will set. The time and place
is up to you. You are the mended
center piece. The 7.95 for a book
in its prime. You were
the words scratched above urinals.
You, dear, are the smell
of candles snuffed, of curtains
torn by huffing winds.
I sin everyday
to your name. I dance
in my towel, almost naked.
Clean water falling from my body
to the bare floor. Every drip,
every heel kick, is a nod
towards your granular scars
and red blooded taste.