Where We Live

Next door, he climbs under
A jacked-up Chevy with a droplight.

His girl rags off
The silver tools before passing them under.

Tire-scream and glasspack-rumble.
The concerto in my room goes weak.

But when they quit
It's a black quiet.

I lie down and my mind gets up
In its sleep.

At my kitchen table
He leans over a blank page --

Cut hands and cracked nails
Rimmed with slim moons of dirt.

He is mocking
Up a list of my loves:

The click of well-seated valves,
A good rock beat for the drags,
A girl beside me,
The beautiful poor white girl
Who will litter me kids,
Adjust the light, shadows for make-up.

© BOA Editions, Ltd 1982