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.