“But c’mon, baby. You disappear like that,
“I start thinkin’ you’re in a ditch.”
I give him nothing more than a stare?—
a silentfuck-off, I’m done.
Then my stare glazes over,
drifting off as we wait for Ronnie.
The whole city lives on the other side of the glass.
Steel stacked to the sky,
Manhattan flexing its muscles,
using his window for a mirror.
Photos of me clutter the shelves.
Black frames.
Dustless.
Sickeningly proud.
Me at graduation,
him in a suit beside me.
Me at a piano,
him standing behind me, head bowed.
Me on the steps of our Colorado cabin,
him keeping me still with a hand at my side.
I hate that he keeps pictures of me displayed.
Probably jerks off to them between meetings on his lunch break.
There’re no photos of him and Mom.
None of him and Dad.
Only one of him and his brother,
the CEO of Hopefield Medical Hospital?—
the guy he’s always trying to measure up to.
And to my right, one with Tenner Killjoy.
Below them, a multi-platinum award forGot Your Location?—
no longer mine, credit stripped.
