July 2005 / Volume Six / Issue Four
Ryan Bird
Stranger Outside The Window

Smoking deep,
counting brownstones.

His angled thrusts
and creaking noises
tweak my temples. Spike them.
Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one…

He, he knows about me, you know.
Shoved me against the wall once,
clearly, he’s thought this through.

I tongue strings
of loose cheek-flesh,
chewing them thoughtlessly.
Sixty-three, sixty-four…

Tomorrow shall come
and she’ll need me yet
by God.

I am the long haul man
with flowerbed boots,
counting her freckles
along the curve of my hand.
RETURN to July 2005