reached up into the top of the closet
and took out a pair of blue pan ties
and showed them to her and
asked “are these yours?”
and she looked and said,
no, those belong to a dog.”
she left after that and I haven’t seen
her since. she’s not at her place.
keep going there, leaving notes stuck
into the door. I go back and the notes
are still there. I take the Maltese cross
cut it down from my car mirror, tie it
to her doorknob with a shoelace, leave
book of poems.
when I go back the next night everything
is still there.
keep searching the streets for that
blood-wine battleship she drives
with a weak battery, and the doors
hanging from broken hinges.
drive around the streets
an inch away from weeping,
ashamed of my sentimentality and
possible love.
confused old man driving in the rain
wondering where the good luck
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