When he tells me my love-

  seat is where he sleeps,

               that he notches

passing time on its under-

side, that the crack across

the chewed up wood armrest

  is where he banged his head

                awakened by a bar

       fight a couple years ago

(lifting his Bears cap & parting

a few hair wisps to show me,

  above his pink eyes, a lusty,

puffed scar), that he folds

our blankets every morning

careful as one can be

under the duress of an impending

alarm, I leave without resistance.

I’m just settling

in to binge til the next

            commute. You

know. I wonder tho, how’s

      he get in my apartment

                      every night, &

           how could I have over-

         looked him for so long?

The path ahead and behind appears

level and the sun is high and I can’t

find the way down to my car. I sit

in a sliver of shade under the 1-800-

WORSHIP billboard risen above the trees

and reminisce about nights spent awe

struck in the intersection below

near nicked by two-way traffic

reflexes pacified by the glint of the yellow

lines I straddled. Parades would dance

down that road and I’d join them

with no idea why we were gathered

and when a driver honked everyone

yelled back fuck you in unison.

That Bruno Mars bassline struts

between my ears. In darkness

rustles disturb my rumination

and I jolt up whiny plywood stairs

to survey in prairie dog neck jerks

from the platform. The forest summit

and base are shrouded in the background of spot

lights trained on the stock model’s existential

grimace and all the roads in town are visible

connecting like a map with live updates. I full

body turn and see the ad

engulfed by my inflated shadow.