January 30, 2006 | 8:02 p.m.
trouble some day.

how long she slept beside you, breathing your bedroom from rose to blue. built us babies inside her, four hearts beating while yours fell flat as forty years worth of old beers.

you were nothing but a mean backhand. we huddled in our bunks. just waiting.

no, you won’t find her up north where the plains have been churned soft as sweet whites and cotton tails. not where the tongues turn to french hens and turtle doves.

everyone says, she went someplace better. so you could never get her.