Pink, the smell of old men's hair.
Something hidden ticks in our bath-
room; the green drapes wither
like petals and light creeps in.
Ice coats the flags, the lost mittens
in the gutters. Sometimes you let me
take your cock in my mouth, but you
won't teach me the words I need to
buy a cup of tea. Your joints stick
with the cold, so the restaurant is too
far to walk .You wait for the bus
in the lobby and write postcards
to people I don't know. The red-hatted
man ahead of us in line winks, makes
his hand into a pistol and shoots us.
That night, I try to hold your hand
from my twin bed while the radiator
bangs like a hungry prisoner,
tin cup against iron bars, back and forth.