Outside Pablo’s

Fish bones in my throat as I kiss
this stranger until she pulls away.
Three-legged hound ecstatic over
abandoned carne asada, full moon
making me weepy over those
I left to face the snow. Waiting
for someone to love you is not
so different from brushing your teeth
with a chainsaw. My luminous stranger
leaves me in the parking lot so I drive
out to Griffith Park to confide
in the abandoned steam engine,
the grim-lit driving range. I understand
ghosts, their suicide foxtrot when
you thought they’d gone to bed.
You can find me twisting my face
in the La Cuevita bathroom any night
I’m not doing something more
melodramatic, like making eyes at faucets,
Sharpie-ing the walls, throwing words
at the wind and waiting for some
lovelier set of sounds to return.