Rob and I
walk through the city,
night like a comforter.
He wants to
make love in an alley
but I'm more turned on by
the idea of a hamburger --
the good kind,
the kind you get at the all-night diner
on the corner of Polk and Pine Street.
The kind with the fried egg on top.
I can't stop thinking about it.
And he looks like Halloween candy,
All rich and bad for me and translucent in his chest.
Later his eyes will stalk my face
to see how I look when I come.
His voice has dropped down to
the rawhide tone he uses when
he wants to convince me to come into the bedroom.
I grab his arm and pull him
into the diner
to eat greasy late-night food.

Some mornings
he tells me about substance,
about weight and feeling and belief.
He tells me this with the earnestness
of a spelling bee contestant
even while I tune out the sound of his voice --
Think about the book I'm reading,
Watch people in the street,
Clean stains off of the couch.
I solve this conversation
by sliding out of my clothes and
letting him fall asleep next to me.

Years later,
I am standing in my bathroom
remembering
what he looked like one day when
he was leaning over the sink
brushing his teeth,
smiling at me through the toothpaste,
shirt off
hair shaggy
eyes ablaze
grateful
uncomplicated
damp from the shower
destructive
imprinted on my heart
like an antique wax seal.