While the roof leaked oil through slim, glittering cracks
their edges black with petroleum and rainwater,
I slept like a drunk in my stalled blue Honda.
The buses pass over me like men in the aisles of bars,
each cigarette burned to the filter.
But towers are for the lovely girls, their hair
smoke rippling upward from a burning book.
White teeth striking sparks when clamped together.
My mother knew this would happen.
I’m a badly aimed bottle rocket, my blue flames scattering sideways.
She said it’s easy to build a house under a bridge.
And don’t ask the men in suits for money.
Before I left, my father was dark like a used up candle,
the bottom of the dish oily and rank.
He held me by the neck and whispered:
Our apartment is a place for prayer cards and silver statues.
Not your stolen lipsticks, or filched toe rings.
Home should shine like a mirror seen from sideways.
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