Milford

I saw a picture of you the other day;

It was taken in that shitty apartment where you lived with my man Tito.

Ade was there, and Noah.

And you were eating tortilla chips

All together

On that couch where Shop Kitty lived,

Where Miles schooled me,

And I slept until 6:00 a.m.

Before walking back to the hotel

In the rain.

There are all of those books on that bookshelf behind you,

And that table with the soldering iron, bicycle cogs, tin cans, and

A dead sparrow.

Tito never didn't roll a fag.

The picture is yellowed with incandescence:

It's not the way it was, but it gives a sense of the way it was--

Warm, cozy,

Fucking too hot in August.

But it glows, that image, and it's all blurry with too little light or too much motion.

It messes with my mind, you looking down into that salsa bowl,

Ade looking at me, right through me,

Like she's the only one who knows.

You know, Mils, as a guy rolls through life--

Chewing phat with homies and whatnot,

And--being an asshole--not being down with what's down--

It passes.

And then it's gone.

. . .

It's a picture, see: it's not real now.

That's the point I'm trying to make.