He smells like the rotted breath
from a dead lung and swaggers
as if he isn’t the last call at a dive bar.
My (no)soles heel the side walk
right past him loud enough to make
the dead dance, but wasted Romeo
is too beer eared to hear never.
He lunges…I sidestep…The ice house
choir dollars a bet on how long it will
take drunk lover to rise from his fall.
Some call me tin angel, others swamp call
me broom eyed…I don’t care if it’s wings
or cauldron…I’ll follow whatever anointing
it takes when a woman calls my number
and tells me, “I don’t feel safe in this place.”
