I’m staring down from the second floor
across the street from Tango’s Lounge,
where there’s no crowd, and I hear music
from car windows as they slow to turn,
and even the rubber slicing over asphalt
and manhole covers briefly drowns out
the saxophone as it hurts into a mic. All
day you’ve been plunking rusted metal
into your purse, and I never stopped to
ask what you really wanted, I just made
the mistake of thinking you needed time
for yourself. But tonight you didn’t drink,
and drinking was all I could do. I’m not
the driver—but now, outside, blue light
flickers against my skin, and you’re inside
the room between sheets. A cop’s pulled
a red Honda over and blocked the street.
A woman steps out from the bar with a drink
still in her hand and directs a Chevy as it
backs out. A cook in baggy striped pants
hurries to his car and fumbles for his keys.
The cop stares with his flashlight at eyeballs
and IDs. Tonight, somewhere between
my thoughts and my drinks, I’ve forgotten
how to tell you yes. I turn to go back inside,
wanting to slip into bed next to you, but
Tango’s open sign burns in the glass.
Taylor Collier, originally from Lubbock, Texas, currently lives in Nashville, TN. He has degrees in Creative Writing from Florida State, Syracuse, and the University of North Texas. Poems have appeared in places such as Barrow Street, Birdfeast, The Laurel Review, The Normal School, Poet Lore, Rattle, Smartish Pace, Tar River, Zone 3, and others. More poems and writing about poetry at: taylorcollier.com.
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