we spent many nights
on the fire escape with her cat.
at a concert of an old good friend.
i can hear only her house, with the map walls –
a constant creaking of no one thing.

she would eventually join the circus
and wore circus pants always.
she was my bartender at dinner
with our friends. one night,
her face became sunflowers.
i saw her like that all summer.

the train back is long and blurry,
thinking of other things. at home
my bed is the dirt.
i crumble into it
and stuff the covers around me.
soon, a heavy rush falls over;
i sink further into it. this bed
is for two; this bed is for two.

Lester Petillo is a poet living in New York City.

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