(your soul is waxed and manicured)

your soul is waxed and manicured
by the same people who do your eyebrows
you decorated your heart like the hall of mirrors
an optical illusion, made of obsidian
meant to appear more expansive, comprehensive
but it's only just a wall

life in a walk up you called it
each stair a meditation sight
pissing in the snow 
on a lower east side Manhattan rooftop
howling at the moon, talking at the stars
the rush of fucking
twenty stories high

you weren't there
just me.

Go ahead, ask me, if you feel so inclined
ask me if I care
the answer's written down here
somewhere...
but I have a feeling the ink evaporated
because either way it seems unlikely 
I can answer honestly.

Go ahead, ask me if I care
I thought I left the answer
sitting there
or maybe it drowned in love puddles of saturday night
but maybe it rode the tail end of gas fumes
from sunday morning driving
from his front door.

it's ruining the air up there.
a hole in the ozone, a peep-hole to heaven
watch as the angels change into nightgowns
after putting curlers in their hair
beside a nightstand full of postmarked prayers

Angels move vertically but we move sideways
door to door,
eye to eye, 
street to street.
silenced by the summer heat.
I know you, I know you
you're not who you say you are
or who you thought you'd be