Three poems

Portrait Of A New Love

In the din, an alabaster hall,
ripped jeans
over bare knees and
sunny flowing hair.
Eyes like stories on mine
and giggles, hid into her shoulders

Bass Guitar

At sixteen, my father bought me a bass guitar
that I didn’t like. Or, rather, that I tossed aside
and didn’t play for years. So old, the strings
bore metal bruises—the frets knowing
more of wind than skin

Then one day I was in a band
And I knew their songs
And I heard their parts and
felt their grooves

and then one day my fingers bled
away the bruises and left
shimmers in their wake

It’s interesting. How he would do that.
Talk to me of things I did not know
and could not make sense.

When I was four, I didn’t understand
why we don’t scream in movie theaters or sprint
across restaurants blurting “PEE! PEE! I’VE GOTTA PEE!”

But my father did.
And he knew I would, too.

And That Is Why

Busted bruises, black and blue and ugly
words, blurted like spats
of whisky or rye.
And the blue box
flashes red,
the click of a muzzle
over the dog
mouth
and the man
face.
“facade”
Purple and shiny and home away
from here. Far away
where lights
glimmer
under neon
skies
and they don’t
need
no red