happy and damned

You never asked for protection
from love. Not even a formula
for dealing with my bar-stumble 
into the rain—stories about boys
who ground their teeth and smoked,
waiting in a red Cavalier while I sneaked out
back peeling down the wire fence.
This is what I have: the bottle of Heaven Hill
smashed into a foot of rock sugar in our street,
rusty fork from Thanksgiving
when I threw the turkey straight over
the balcony when you said you’d leave—
and the neighbors didn’t say a damn thing
about it, just stepped around the cracked plates
for days. Sometimes I can still feel the heat 
of your hand in the dark, my wanton limb
struggling for some inner step,
wishbone broken somewhere underfoot.