Poem of the Day

The Change Machine

Breathing into the brown hair of a stranger
at the Gas and Go, I lost sight of your razor
pants and hairline cracks behind the ATM.

Your delicious tongue called out fresh
languages in your sleep under shuffling air
too hot to fall again for hours.

That's days gone. Under the rising sun
by the Greyhound terminal in Memphis
a corkscrew kid--bluejeans, a smirk--

laughs like a change machine. They come slow
at first: a rose, a river, some blood
falls down. The leaves in dusk light

cascade to the storm drain, your smile
fades into the dark of blown candles
molten, wild to be found.