just a little simple contact
inconsequential fist bump
against the knuckle of

your silver bling fingers
the rain has ceased
underneath this bridge

and you polish your new
tattoo of blue butterfly wings
you say the ink is peeling off

and I get it how something
beautiful can quickly turn
into blears of dark how long

it took to learn you to get
the rhythm of you we have
been cruising through the

busy streets of Pittsburgh
in constant contact swerving
to avoid listless walkers

and even that I understand
how I wander through the
world underneath the cig

smoke sky not caring that
the secondhand will kill
me when I choose to inhale

(originally published in Fleas on the Dog, Spring 2020)