Roxbury, or "Fuck you, Theodore James Collins"

Excess brimming over--
I’m in love but it doesn’t matter

High above the street, baked brick
Fuming with dissatisfaction, I wait
And thirst with the negation
Of Old-E on my lips

I cannot help the tremor
Of your return, and the slow dying
Of pain, into joy as you return

On the swings, with little children
Screaming with delight at our attentions
Sorry and sad, birthed by the projects
And molded in apologetic love

O god, I tremor when you return
Afraid of work the next day, the façade
Of my daily self, the exhaustion
Of keeping you okay.

You’re mean
Mean mean mean, and punishing--
I have nothing to do with them, but you won’t pretend
And that love is so present, blatantly
Eclipsing me--

I tried to clean today, sweetheart--
And you didn’t notice, but ran
Down to Calle’s, to stay
In that place that I cannot go, can only leave

I swear in the heat of this flat-roofed home
I’ll jump, I’ll jump, or just throw this bottle
Down on the street

And split apart like shards of glass and be free.