three days before the first

[themansfield]

Monk and Coltrane
spraying out from the speakers
and onto the hard tile floor, too;
that place too tough
to dig a grave up
feels slightly softened

but baby, that seems silly
since this scissor-snip cold
started slow, sliding
old icy feet
between these jacket sheets
while I wait with
white-tipped tops of trees, framed
luminescent through the window pane

freshen up memories;
I see a planted seed
somewhere between 
a police chief and the trimmed greens
where slim rich fiends play
and pretend being free

us two, plenty sinful
moonlit in a mini-van
I, always awkward, armored
from inside your voice
bellowed in echo
a stout vowel crowding out
any meaning being screamed

true, the seed grew
and though I noticed
those vines gliding,
threading thick brambles around me
I never felt 
them or anything else.

and Monk and 'Trane
laid down now
off the record, still wrecked
I try to run with rabbits
stepping outside - away from notes
warm as my winter clothes
(which now cover wet asphalt patches)
I'm finally feeling 
every thorn-forced pinprick
letting loose a loving little used
but still much too late

I stand naked, 
so if you happen to come by
you'll finally know me
unprotected
frost-bitten and bitter
remembering your day of birth