he saw her for the last time off route 109
her hair brassy
under the fluid lights of the parking lot
they shared a cigarette, and a cause
as empty as the feeling
in the pits of their stomachs
an infatuation
that caved them like the suburb walls
a town plagued by the diligence of traffic police
she said she owed him nothing
life goes on in this place,
whether I have you or not
in the creeping light of New England dawn
a Chevrolet rounds the bend
the high school janitor has arrived for his shift
across the four lane street,
his uniform embroidered Earl
and a girl of sixteen, clean pressed in navy
sweeps cold floors at the diner
with buzzing neon lights
the burning half of his smoke
meets a crushed end
in the pavement before his departure
he thinks of her in secret;
he loves her in theory
in the mornings his eyes are glass gray
with the slightest bit of sky
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