Soot packs into my whorled calluses 
modeling child’s pose on the fire escape 
hair heavy with dry shampoo. 

You hug one knee on a pitted bench, 
sketch the busker cleaning his trumpet. 

My cigarettes are sold loose, like 
ankles catching on plywood furniture, 
barefoot send-offs on Bogart Street. 

I mouth cabaret in the mirror— 
you buzz in and bring me a bouquet 
from the lobby planter bed 

your fingers, sticky with sap 
sponging drugstore wax from my lips.