In Between Tattoos
He tells me he draws designs that no one
will trust him to place on fleshy hip bones
or those spaces in between two shoulder blades.
He tells me he bets his friends who can run
fastest around the squat building, circling
past the dumpster where used needles and gloves go.
He tells me he talks about the best Nirvana song,
Courtney killed Kurt, and my wife was in Seattle
when they found his dead body. He was wearing Chucks.
He tells me he watches for his machine, the shape
of a metal bluebird on purpose, heavier than you would
think, to stumble onto to two twig legs and fly away.