Marks

biting mouths and moving hands
laughs from alley way bricks
creaks from tires worn thin by asphalt
stretched over New England valleys

I left downtown with a collection of Sylvia Plath
tucked inside my down jacket
a bottle of jack crinkling in brown paper
swinging from my wrist

I left my family with a collection of Sylvia Plath
tucked beneath my bed skirts
bottles of budweiser breaking at the return center
the smell of malt pungent and damp

I left my neighbors with a collection of Sylvia Plath
tucked neatly below a door frame
keeping the fake hot air on one side
and the hypothermia with them, to them, for them

dawn breaks on children’s backs
shackled to biological dreams
foresight lacking what reality tv holds
mirror pieces scattered on your shoes

constructing finales in my keypad
breathing bites of menthol
two days ago’s dinner
supporting the aches of my limbs

you left me with a collection of Sylvia Plath
folded in an overture of caressed words,
dials lacking click,
feedback chords, and globs of spit

our sidewalks breach our condolences

photo belongs to the author