I heard about you when the dawn came in,
and Maria was making her way down the staircase.

She toddlered herself
past the steps you ripped through
when you binged on what felt like
the end of December.

The urban heat battered the sleep off my thighs,
the scent of hope morning-breath caved in my nostrils and
little Maria sung Ray Lamontagne
but the words could not squeeze through
the sound of the radio.

“4:35” - it kept saying the time;
It kept saying the date.
It kept saying those words
with their four to five syllables
ripping the beauty off private room drugs
and your name;
it kept saying
your family name.

I don’t think that I’ll ever
get used to the sound of it
bubblegum wrapped
on the edge of my tongue.

Then Helena came by
and we talked about you
like we’ve done for some time now
with her stringing cyclical mellow dramatics
on why I should tell you to “eat your own ass.”

And I couldn’t find ways to say “shut the fuck up”
without “shut” or “fuck up” or “go swallow a razor.”
So I just decided to give her the news;
about you and the dawn and the 4:35
with the date and the words
that could rip off the beauty of
private room drugs.

And I thought she’d shut up
but she just kept on talking.

I got on a bus today,
laid on the back with what’s left of the morning
and read all the WANNA GUD FUCKER TODAY’s
with the EMO MUST DIE’s and the GO DEMOKRASIYA’s.

I had a hand laid between seats right in front of me
curved to a shape where your fingers could moor.

And I wish I could say that I went to the docks;
got a couple of Starbucks to throw at the women who
didn’t have school on a Saturday morning and said
that they only watch “bold indie films”
loud enough so that everyone near them could hear and say
“finally, kids nowadays have some culture.”

I wish I could say that their boyfriends came at me and I
grabbed a handful of balls and a cock, bit an ear,
ripped a shirt that costs more than a month
of hard labor from kids with the shanty-homed lifestyle and
got myself punched on the nose and the groin.

And I wish I could say
that the cops broke the fight
that they put me in handcuffs
and asked why I did it so
I could say “I was just passing the time.”

But I can’t.
I had school
and the docks couldn’t wait.

I got home by the time the West
fought off the dark
and what’s left of your touch
seemed to copy the hardwood,
along with the knobs of the crumbling doors
and brush of the breeze
from the whistle of pipes.

And the radio talked about sides and Obama
and other new things like a girl who got raped.

And I thought about you when the night dove in;
when Maria and I made our way up the staircase.

She toddlered herself
past the steps you ripped through
while I tripped on the tinge
of what’s left of December.