In the back alley—in the alcove—hidden from the public eye by the dumpster, I find it.

The Dress

I am afraid you are going to do it.
And you are afraid of doing it.

The Unveiling

It was like looking at a drawing in progress, a child’s drawing, from very close up. I was bent over it, watching the lines take shape.

I Walked . . .

I could not tell if it was your backpack
Or your life 
That was too heavy

Are You Screaming?

I can’t see your face
Every expression wiped off 
A blank slate

Another You

Every time I see you
You give me a different reason 
For having another drink

A Thousand Deaths

You were 27
You lived and died
You died a thousand deaths before you stopped breathing