clean

across legions of cheap shots and ash
collecting dirty looks
and second-hand smoke
like small scars
like a scratch

these are the places you refused to drink
the streets you hated to walk down
the bitumen i stumble home on
linked with the wrong arm

some nights the seaward wind
blows in too many directions
and all the places where we kissed
or stopped to hold each other at traffic lights
whistle hollow now

like muddled glass hollow
greasy plate hollow
unanswered call hollow
hollow like a lie

and lies no worse than yours
or mine
are told here

it’s easy to lose things leaning out over a bar
it starts with the tongue
brushes against the thigh
and leaves in the morning

despite your disapproval
i think you would like it here
the non-committal twang in every order
the way they wipe the tables so clean after meals