phillips avenue

my street has milk cartons for houses,
paper-thin walls decomposing with every spoonful of sugar.

i sit outside on my front porch sometimes. there's no swing, but there's a plastic bench painted green. and when i lower myself onto the bench, i see that my roommate has littered the concrete with cigarette butts and hidden the half-empty bottles behind the fold-up chairs. i smile thinking of the shawl that's been left in the backyard ever since she's moved in. it's been drained of all its color, but it still reassures me of its presence every day i walk by and do nothing. cindy teaches me about pisces' strengths and weaknesses and i do nothing. she tells me the six of us are compatible living together.

last night i heard her bed frame beat against the wall like fists
or drumbeats.
i notice all of my metaphors have violent undertones and i don't know what that says about me or the influence of the media.

i sit on the porch and i listen through our neighbor's paper-thin walls. i'm diagnosing his bricks with osteoporosis. there's pockets in the bone. they look dependable, but they'll break their hip with a spill down the stairs.

let me defend myself. there's no impression of the shape of my ear on his door. no stain of my pupils on the glass. don't report me. i'm just tuning in to 56 phillips avenue as my radio station. i listen to his single-minded hands as they saunter up and down the piano. he's played piano his whole life. he knows the hymns from his lessons, but he likes classical better.

i've never seen him. i don't know if it's a him. i don't know if he's one of the renters in the basement or the stereotypical grandparents living on the mainfloor.

but i think about him sometimes.

he does the grocery shopping after teaching philosophy at the university. the kids just want an a. his boyfriend is in grad school. he just wants an a. he understands. in his left hand is the grocery bag and in the other hand is a bottle of wine. he grills salmon and he buys his boyfriend's favorite brand on exam days.

and sometimes, i want someone to love me that much.

and i do.

my best friend is so resilient, so stubborn. she's broken bridges and climbed mountains. she found herself after bleeding out and she drained the bitterness from her heart with a kitchen strainer. her heart is more pink than anyone, ask him. her love reaches further than your cell service, ask him.

but i was jealous tonight when she slept over at her girlfriend's
and her girlfriend tucked her into bed
and walked me to the door

because i want someone to love me that way.

i was a convicted criminal driving home,
guilty until proven innocent.
i was a merciless god who punished my servants for not counting their blessings.

YOU ARE HAPPY
AND YOU ARE SO FUCKING NEEDY FOR WANTING A DIFFERENT KIND OF LOVE
WHEN THERE ARE CHILDREN WHO HAVEN'T KNOWN ANY

but i still want it.

the last resemblance to a boyfriend was my weekday lover
he'd call once a week and invite me over
and we'd small talk until we fucked each other

i taught him how best to hurt me
the student burned his teacher with his cigarettes

i only know how to sleep with alcoholics and liars
so please find me someone who attends aa meetings regularly
i've tried so hard to choke out my monsters
my hands are too tired to knock yours as well

i just want to find someone to tell
i've fucked up and you've fucked up
let me buy you a coffee

i've fucked up
please don't fuck me up
let me buy you a coffee