we kept it up all night
at that little duplex
on Madison,
you’d just
moved in, only
one mattress
on the floor
and the closet
with the full
length mirror
we watched
the movie
of ourselves
unbridled
in,
and then,
afterwards,
sat
at the only
furniture,
a crippled
card table
as I stared
into a dollar
store
crystal
ball
at my endless
reflection
and told you
how empty
I had become
and the rain
came down
like a chain
link fence
and I was trying
so hard to break
up with you
because everything
was impossible
even this
break up
was breaking
me up
so I poured
another mist
and coke
the radio
continued
to soothe
itself
into a blue
jazz haze
followed by
Rainy Day
People
as if it
and you were
in cahoots
and the street
light shone in
like a killer
Gerhard
Richter
painting
all done up
in shadow
and light
and like
in one
of those
noir films
there weren’t
any answers
to be found
but sometimes
some solace
is there
waiting
for the anti-
heroes
as they
disappear
into each other
as the
credits roll
over them
in the early
morning
downpour
