By Tyler J. Yoder
It was a foundation, and also a word, in the wickedest man I know,
A few drinks in the story of its birth.
I am far too small for answers, for an embrace,
For Art is white and cold, and will be many others,
Most lucid at playing the ancient games.
Lord, I remember the bartender,
The institutionalized uncle’s affair,
Our sordid lives that summer.
The kiss was blurry, on the fifth,
Less tidy than murder.
The flaws aren’t soft
When I am assaulted by forty years.
I am seething, waiting for jail.
I am looking for a month,
Or a love affair tres sérieux.