I think you would
like this place.
Shower water turns cold to shock.
Think short, kid fingers
burning in the snow.
I slip into my blue jacket.
I lace up my combat boots.
Outside, some windows slide open,
and the rest resting slam
shut. Somewhere, sweat
darkens a neck. Others
surely shiver home, straight
into the vein. Scattered in the square,
sleeping on benches,
tattooed girls cross and uncross,
pulling at wide-stretched
ears, twitching and laughing
near lonely, old men. Late skater boys
fuck, snake, paint, relate.
One of them, the smallest,
a half-finished painting…
well, he looks like you –
gaunt and buried within a yellowish glow
of lamp. I want to walk
with you. I want to step
on the heels of your shoes.
Alone feels right in this artist
light. Muted, a heavy makeup, it hides
the deepest flaws.
A splinter breaks free.
Now it’s caught in my curls,
and love is the man
who finally pries it loose. Well, now I am
almost inside. I feel almost
pretty. I think you would
like this place.
C.A. MacConnell
