so titled because her voice says it in my head.



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i met maxine for lunch the other day
over lattes and salad that would
cost half my paycheck she giggled
'the preacher got laid in the confessional
last tuesday afternoon' she said
'i didn't see it with my own eyes, but
i know it happened
i was kinda there'
with pursed lips she politely sipped
her latte through a straw
and said
'i just kept them closed
and waited for him to be through'
and all the overpriced lettuce in the world
couldn't hide my disbelief
'he said he could get me
closer to god' as she played idly with
her fork before pushing her plate away untouched

three floors down in my apartment building
on the stairs that lead to the door
there's a small wiry girl with big blue eyes
she doesn't say much and eats even less
she's been sleeping in taxi cabs and
sequin-lined dresses
and i think she might die soon
so yesterday evening i brought her some flowers
and sat on the bottom concrete step
while she told me about her hollywood life
she paints herself nightly and entertains the stars
then i paid her cab fare and whispered goodbye
poor thing, she didn't see
that her stars are just pieces of broken bottles
in the gutter
in the alley
i suppose it's not so bad she can't see after all
she said her name was anna

clea wasn't a very pretty girl by the textbook
definitions
but she loved the morning exhaust fumes and
always whistled some strange tune
i liked to watch her as she walked down ferguson street
she worked at the corner bodega
and sometimes gave me an apple for free
she wore tap shoes in the rain
and never passed a homeless man without asking the time
i didn't sleep for a week straight
after i heard from her boss that she'd been raped
i thought maybe by staying up i could make up
for not being awake to protect her
now i watch her eyes drift farther away like she's
pretending not to be there
and every time it rains i cry as i strain
to see if she's wearing
her tap shoes but
she doesn't give me apples any more

the last time i went to boston
i saw a woman no more than a child
singing her heart out to an unfeeling subway
that angrily roared down the tracks
her face so familiar i almost could touch it
and her name was like gingerbread
in the back of my mouth 'francis' i called
she blinked twice and her lips melted
a smear of burgundy on pale white skin and
when she smiled her teeth were beautiful
but i have never been
to boston