while talking tight-lipped through
the shudders to a gaunt pair of hips
and gold fillings, remember
his poise was flat and hazy
especially when he held you by the wrists,
introduced himself over the stereo, slipped
small white capsules to your shot glass,
directed you toward the dimly-lit room,
copper-blue bodies frame the fringes
of the city like lost train ticket stubs,
soon he'll be one of them, frostbitten
night-shade, don't unbolt the door.
static-y payphone to living room,
before you let him speak to his son
on Sundays only, you must throw
away your pharmaceuticals.
About Brian Le Lay:
Brian Le Lay lives out of his car in San Francisco. He is the editor of Electric Windmill Press. He wrote the book Don't Bury Me in New Jersey. He is currently writing a poem about Leonardo DiCaprio. His work has been published by Dogzplot, Gloom Cupboard, The Prism Review, Kill Author, and Hanging Moss Journal.