The small of winter

Scent of Morgan
She will leave you guessing
Same as she did me
Our short days unfolded
Striped pants, stained ripe olive
Outside A jail cell
They held my belongings
Don’t ask me to explain
My stuttering and shivering
Sockless inside my boots
Lately I always come late
Breathalyzer never waits
Miss Hutchens reads
I will never put my mouth upon that
Her beautiful throat
Thin lips painted the same that I paint
Offering poetry at fourteen
Staggering through the snow
Paths to spring
We eventually never arrived
Perfect is a mess best served frozen
Your handle of cast iron
Breakfast for years and still hunting
Frosted hair and warm pancakes
And Morgan reads
The end of a beautiful train
Blue and yellow faded
Broken bath sink
Submarine tile and the shower chair
My sadness hidden by the late show
News always ended the day
Days always ended my search
Now winter has found me again
I haven’t the strength anymore
To climb that hill
Towards the top beneath the pines
You and I would still be alive
Where I waited for you to come home
You thought I loved you
I was just a boy
Yet those warm sticky lips kissed me
Locking all these prison doors
Me and my memories and winter
The wreaked car
Stiff concrete on the bridge
Smell of electricity and bondage
Handcuffs and humiliation
I almost made it home
If it weren’t for the small of winter
We would be together