The word’s been bounced about in gas stations
as you’re pumping away, the spectral drops
on the pavement. You resent it there,
that serpent. The word’s been bellowed
out a bar door flooding with night
after a tab’s been left behind. Who’s
going to pay it now? Just beautiful.
You look away from its flag in your head,
the black stocking flexing out of a car,
a gold chain flashing by, Christmas lights
in April, surface effects, not the real thing.
You want to save it for some special occasion
like the time you had to close the clinic door
on the girl looking in your eyes for hope,
but then you would not dare think it.