There
is a brothel
hanging
on
my ceiling
what
is it about the
unfamiliar
that
keeps me so
comforted
at
12am on the top
bed
of
a bunk I used to
share
with
a kid from
Sarasota
who
liked to strum
to
Dylan
on
the beach
who
picked flowers
for
a girl
he
loved since the
7th
grade
who
bled out like a
broken
levee
in
the back of a half
blown
up
humvee
as
shrapnel pierced his
19yr
old neck
while
I clinched tightly his
19yr
old hand
and told him everything was
fine
as
I watched life drain
slowly
out
of his 19yr old
eyes
and
I don’t even know
the
name
of
the guy who killed
him
and
I probably won’t
know
the
name of the guy who
will
kill me
and
I definitely don’t know
the
names
of
any of these women
staring
down from the
ceiling
but
they are here
tonight
I’m
somehow how still here
too
and
for the moment everything
really
is
just
fine
