Cold feet in the sheets,
antsy boy with the shapely butt,
think about him sometimes.
Search out his names–he had four, right–in memory,
then type them in the blinking search bar.
Back then, afternoons were: polishing glass, folding whites.
Behind the oak bar; shaking, mulling, stirring, tasting. Straw sips, head bobs.
Sidewalk steaming, trash bag wreckage spilling totems
into the street. Taxi cabs blinking hazards late into the night,
when we clocked out, but hung around. Wine behind the corner,
so guests don’t see. Wait and hope maybe he’ll stay too.
James Rafael Anthony Marren. Brown eyes underlined
with freckles and my own gaze unable
to let him go. Where did his bird bone shoulders go
each night, close to dawn when we finally left, stumblinginto fresh air. He always walked the other way.