We’re both too broke for cigs,
but he’s got a mason jar of bud;
a gift from The Hermit
who lives near Lost Beach.
It’s a seven hour hike to
get lost. He promises to take me.
He got mugged the other day
taking photos on the South Side.
Alone. “You’re lucky you didn’t get shot.”
“I’m lucky they didn’t take my camera.”
That’s passion, sending
bloody locks of hair
to the girl who no longer loves you.
She called it crazy.
I held him naked,
curled in the corner of the cold shower,
crying. Lying and telling him:
“It’ll get better.”
No one can promise that.
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