5 hard ways to leave

Out the window,

one boot on,

your pants unbuttoned,

your hand in one boot.

Lucky is the stinking metal

of a dumpster banging against your ass.

Through the door,

leave nothing behind.

Nod to her boyfriend,

surrender his girlfriend.

Penance is cold after-hours

when buses don’t run

and your cell-phone is dead.

Up the stairs,

perfume and smoke.

Your hands in leather gloves,

your heart out on her street.

Murder is a humid conversation

in a bright room

with your stone mind.

In the car,

turn down the stereo,

turn off the ignition,

open the door, “Get out.”

Justice is crawling through bushes

for keys she threw

farther than she was thrown.

But the hardest

will be with you.

We haven’t met.

I’m sorry I’ll be mean.

Leaving is appraising

all you’ve stored up,

then choosing which to save

from your slowly burning room.

photo:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3291/2408380913_d4c89af7d1.jpg

don't read this

I’m pretty good

at drinking beer,

picking songs,

and driving stick.

Knotting a tie

in several ways.

Matching meats

for a decent sandwich.

Name all the Bond films,

explain meanings of flowers,

fold napkins into roses,

drink martinis shaken dry.

But I’m special agent skilled

at making especially bad decisions.

I can double talk,

find my pants in the dark,

semi-swagger walk,

bend a bluesy harp.

I can double take,

stealthy nympho ninja,

while we’re both mid-gait,

in una strada stretta.

And if you notice,

don’t let me talk.

If you talk too,

there’s no hope for you.

So this is my disclaimer.

A warning, my future ex,

because I’ve learned from bad decisions.

I’m good at sex,

not what comes next.

photo1:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3231/2923992303_1a6da1a0e1.jpg

photo2:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3003/2894944587_7f2983e8f3.jpg