We hid. Talked. Laughed. Smoked cigarettes.
Drank rum and coke. Made promises.
Kept each other warm. Lied. Tried. Cried.
Said good-bye. Came back a thousand times.
Then one day the building was gone.
And everyone in town could see us there.
It was cruel. That’s what it was. Some froze.
Others ran. A few held up our hands.
Now we’re gone too. Scattered to corners.
Crevices. Behind the baseboards. Under the sink.
Bars. Offices. Stores. Mental wards. Cemeteries.
Wherever people go when light shines hard upon them.
To hide while their shells harden. Or to sing.
[From Songs and Letters, first published September 11, 2007.]