we held hands
like rigored mannequins. skipping across denver ave. singing salad days are now. there we were. two feral kids. sharing a pack of coffin nails. under a 31-foot tall statue of paul bunyan. seeking refuge. lazing on median grass. everything was consecrated. seeing god himself would have won silver. that night was golden. yet, gazing up into the woodsman's lonesome blinkers, something felt shanghaied. dustdeviled away. tornadoed away. so we decided to ask him a question: do you love, giant? at once, in a heavy mainer accent: i only ever loved one lady, but she quit me. our lumberjack reached down to bum a dart, leaving us with this: we all deserve a vice or two, they never leave you. we said farewell colossus. followed by a whispered prayer. for him & his long lost ox. that night, you saw me home. and called in the morning. to make sure i was still there.
