Hand Grenade

In the month of bones I wear red galoshes for black-market Theraflu; we heard they took it off the market because junkies use it to break bad.  On your side of town, you gather up single-serve soup cups and treat us both to the tissues with lotion in them.  You wear your leather jacket over plaid pajama pants.  There’s melted snow on your halo curls & fever flush in your pale cheeks.

I start the kettle.  You work the microwave.  We make room for two under one old blanket; your radiance wards off my chills.  We sniffle between kisses, swill honey poison, take bets on who Jerry Orbach & Sam Watterson will convict.  You win; I let you slide your damp hand up under my tee-shirt.  I haven’t worn a bra in days.

When the cold meds and Law and Order stop working, we switch to red wine & The Shield.  You are Vic Mackey & I am Shane Vendrell.  I will love you, follow you, kill for you.  You don’t even have to ask.

Is it season five already?  Your cell phone rings.  You answer to a giddy girl whose loud voice I have never heard before.  You put on your jacket, but you’ll stop at home to change before she opens her legs to heal you.  At the door, you become Lem.  I am still Shane.

-Easily the darkest, meanest poem I’ve ever written; more of a companion piece to “Michael Westen” than to “Except the Cops.”

-“In the month of bones” might be the coolest description I have ever written for anything.  Since this is set in Binghamton, it could be any time of the year, although this instance refers to early February.

-I have, as I’ve said before, a real soft spot for Shane.  We’ve all been there, man.

-Thus ends the “Prime Time” series.  We’ll start with “Saturday Morning” tomorrow.