Flash Powder

-- Police Station Lodger, a Plank for a Bed; Jacob Riis, 1890

My hands are so caked with grime
that he won’t let me clasp them behind
my back; he places them
gingerly on my thighs like I were
modeling engagement rings. It’s
better for the news, he says, but
I don’t want to be the news, slumped
next to the plank I dragged from the
burly gut of Gansevoort Market that
he props up beside me. It still smells
like the blood of some freshly stripped cow
but it’s softer than pavement and it’s better
for the news. Close your eyes, he warns,
or you might go blind. He aims to capture
what’s in the dark – the tarnished concrete
wall; the long wooden mattress; the wrinkled,
throbbing working hands that he admires
as the swift explosion of flash powder shuts my eyes
to open yours.

When he's asleep*

drool slides from his lips
like the trickle of oil from a
sputtering car engine, and I want
to kill him. He’s just a boy in
my bed – an overgrown infant,
snoring and babbling, the crescendo
of nightmare gurgling at the peak
of his throat. I could douse the sheets
with gasoline and watch the flames
devour his frame in a zealous feeding
frenzy; I could wrap my hands
around his throat until his face swells
like a ripened blueberry, bursting
with life. Really

I want to keep him warm, nurse his
dawdling, awkward self –
dress him in yellows, kiss his
cheeks and clean up his
shit in the morning. Really

I’m just hoping I’m onboard
as the train station of his mouth
whistles the arrival of a new
locomotive dream.

* Another edit / revisit