I drove across town
And met a fugitive in a small shop.
I knew his crimes. Still I sat,
Talking with the man whose jail tag
Wore a dollar sign as cheap cologne.
But flowers covered his skin
They made him look gentle, from afar.
It smelled nice, hid the cigarettes
And when he forgot to brush his teeth.
I ordered something sweet,
Him a dark drip. The walls
Were painted black, but somehow
His cup was even darker.
Maybe it was the caffeine,
Or my hyper positive smile,
I convinced myself he had a light
But I think really he was just holding mine.
He lies awake all night,
Thumbs twitching toward war,
Chasing ghosts that always respawn,
Then dreams through
The sun’s bright rays.
He cleans his teeth with white Colgate
And spits hot red, staining my sink.
Dishes stack like unpaid debts.
Dust collects where his hands don’t reach.
I read him a poem after he runs
A head into a brick wall. Blue fog
Lingers. My London tea is bitter,
Too strong.
We walk, the sun seems to skip him.
The trees dance opposite his way
Fire follows, and the birds all pray.
What damned you be this way?
s.g.
xo,
Sheridan Guerrette
The Official Poetry Collection of WSS
