“The passenger-side door is broken,” I tell him,
his hand grasping at the jag of torn plastic,
so I lean in from the inside, push the handle hard
and he slides in beside, leans on the tattered armrest
sings along to the white scramble of radio sound.
These simple things. Tender domesticities
that make your bare toes curl under, a coffee pot
next to the chipped sugar tin, clean blue towels
folded in the broken cabinet. I don’t need to paint
pictures of the rooms you live in, but picture this:
Him pondering the paper scraps scattered on your desk,
puzzling out the sweep and curl of your ink-stained hands.
A skeleton in the closet that strides out when he’s dressed
in his jeans and dirty chucks, kisses your cheek in plain daylight
Bob Dylan on the record player, spaghetti wilting on the stove.
You see the kind of daydreams I stash in the glove compartment
stuffed under the insurance card and pack of Camels, sweet
nothings I hum to the empty passenger seat. Like you-and-me
is something illicit, a dirty fix that’ll lock you up from the inside.