Phoenix - Slaughter Beach, Dog

From the corner of Third and Washington

You can’t see where your brother went

Out somewhere past the beat cops

And beautiful women who work for the government

They walk by in air-conditioned tunnels

That are a cut above the street

While I sweat in my hot coffee

And daydream about how we might meet

Your mother asked for a picture

She says, «Today's your birthday»

In some strung out western stutter

Making all the world her ashtray

She adjusts her aviators

With an absent shaking hand

Tilts the camera forward forty-five degrees

And calls out modeling commands

When we used to go to parties

You’d spend an hour before the mirror

And I’d drink your gin

And ask about your high school souvenirs

Tacked on the wall above the bed

An old Inkjet collage

But you were never much for talking

So I knelt to your mirage

We’d walk the three blocks westbound

In the moonlit Philly fall

And the party would be grand

All our friends would grin with pride

All our friends would be so drunk

And have such pleasant things to say

And at last, we’d see each other

In the way that we had dreamed to be seen

Those nights your house kept secret

We’d stumble up the stairs

My hands tore through your records

While your hands unpinned your hair

The both of us still green enough

To remove the other’s clothes

A quiet signal of devotion

That I am happy to have known