Please don’t ask me to wash these t-shirts of mine
– they still breathe her and smell of the oils of her skin
around the selvedges and all over the garment.
Please don’t ask me to put ointment on these kneecap scars
– I made love to her resting on them, with a thousand different
blue, green, purple, red and white sensations.
Please don’t ask me why a grown-up man should shed tears
– I last saw her at Dulles International, with one last hug and a
musical rhythms defragmenting, ending my trance and tune.