~

i like the scratchy details

the fingernails on blackboards

the rusted chrome

the asian market

as they pull down the rattling steel doors

at the end of day

the one torn flip-flop in the trash

the sign in the window that says open

when clearly 

the shop went out of business eons ago

the SLAM of poetry

the diesel fumes of the passing truck

crows

the obscenity the coach shouts from the dugout

the busker that has nowhere to pee

the bus that sails past my stop

the students with steel clips on their drawing boards

       coming from design class

       who will be late for their jobs

       because the bus sailed past their stop

the coupons from albertson's i'll never use

the woman upstairs who stomps around in high heels at four-thirty

       every morning

       and whose dog barks all day

on BART, in the crush, a hint of baby powder

       among the stink and stench

the apple i buy for lunch that's gone soft

when ezra pound writes something i cannot hate

the crucifix tattooed on the right side of her neck

      and the star of david on the left

and cygnus tattooed down there

      though that's a guess

i have a scorpion (naturally)

~

none of it matters

what does

is the cut of you

the yin and yang of toughness and vulnerability

~

i've always been afraid, obviously, of silence

i can let go of that fear

you sing and hum while you work

a small detail, but significant

that makes us one

~