When I put on this jacket I’d forgotten what city
I was in when I wore it last. In the left pocket
there is a little bit of sand mixed into the dark
lint. In the right pocket, a scrap of paper,
I take out to throw away but then I see
how it is creased in five places, I see
that five weeks of foreign tongues, of people
trying to speak English for me, that cute
mechanical engineer with my mother’s name
taking the receipt the bartender gave me after
a round of shots, I see her folding the numbers
into a tiny oragami and saying, “I do this
all the time” as if to say you’re special, tonight,
but tomorrow, not at all. I’m holding a little bit
of after-midnight in my hand, a crowd gathered
outside a shitty pool hall club under the breezeway
to avoid a brief rain, as it did every night, smoking
until dawn, a wet, mangy dog crossing that dirt road.
The shot of a sweet Portuguese tequila
pulses my veins. I asked if the origami was a boat,
& then put it on my head like a tiny sailor hat,
goofy enough to keep the moment alive. I’m
holding her friends taking Paula’s hand to pull
her away from the suspicious American
to meet a group finely dressed Portuguese men
she’s arranged on a hook up ap. I am holding sunny
midday at that Baleal sandwich shop where Sion
Yates and I have stopped off on our way to find surf
& Paula is sitting at a table in last night’s clothes
& puts her face in her hands, drops her head onto
the table after I walk past. I’m holding the thing
I wanted to say about drunk sex & morning after
shame & it’s okay & Miles Davis saying to a young
Chet Baker, “Come back when you lived a little.”
A small white bed floats in my thick red hand.
I like it. Vivid and immersive. When are you coming home? Happy almost birthday.
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