| |
Last Night in San Francisco
By
Paul G. McCurdy
Last night I woke up next to him
and had never felt so alone.
He was touching me, behind me,
his arm lightly around my waist
but elsewhere, sleeping, hardly there.
He did not stir when I got up,
walked in bare feet on cold wood
through the long hallway —
falling in this foreign home
where the kitchen is sunk —
falling on my hands and knees,
feeling cold linoleum and longing
for sun to burn away this sadness.
I could hear the wind through closed windows,
could imagine trash blowing on the dark streets,
and I pissed — urine which had been in me
hours before when we were awake, flailing
naked, grappling, exploring, trying to make
our different bodies fit together — and failing.
Now I was in my own body again,
leaning over the toilet, shaking,
tears dropping in a yellow pool.
Copyright © 2004 Paul G. McCurdy
|
