costume party

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.