by David Veloz

Bring home to me
my tools, my ladder,
and let me build
a kitchen or a patio.
Let my bald head
turn red in the sun.

I sleep outside
by the elm now,
I read at night.
Your carburetor
is shot, cranked
tight in the vice.

I keep your camera
in a sack by the gate.
There's film for what
I need. I murder
my thick heart
while I wait
to see you in
something blue.