You know they are on a road to a better take -
the Mexican boarder miles south, the lick of lips
like an unlocked towel exposing manhoods
and the marks where you could swear teeth ground.
At the table, Marco grins through chips/salsa/sun
explaining the way he binges so infrequently now
after coming full circle during the younger years
(I can hardly explain those words at 28 are dangerous)
and he sways at pigeons exploring abandoned plates
to our left, stroking the basket for a leftover -
they are like vultures, we joke and lift menus to fly
but they rise quickly like his voice to the busboy.
Cleaning the table, he moves with wings.
Marco and his boyfriend barely focus,
but conversation is manic, as if it were speeding
lifting dust, uncovering the day trip in white
or pills (found him at 25 clutching at Texas;
found him at 3 in the afternoon yelling insane;
found him at my car trying to get in windows;
found him) or highways funfilled and empty.
He didn't mean to yell at the busboy,
and in his words, I know he was just excited.
Thanking the busboy in Spanish, he meant no harm
and looses his teeth just slightly.
Shane Luitjens (3/'01)