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.